by Parnell Hall
Steve chuckled. Christ, what a hypocrite he was. Going into court with his own long hair, looking like a refugee from the sixties, but damned if he’d let his client look like teenagers did now. Well hell, he had good reason, didn’t he? The kid’s liberty was at stake. He’d be guilty of malpractice if he didn’t advise the kid according to his best interests.
If he wasn’t guilty of malpractice already. For giving Jack Walsh advice. For letting him write that fucking holographic will.
The door opened and Tracy Garvin ushered in Mark Taylor.
“The shit’s hit the fan, Steve,” Mark said.
“Yeah, same here. I just hope it’s the same shit.”
“Did Jeremy tell you about the will?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Then that’s no surprise. My pipeline from headquarters’s been checking in all morning, and that’s the first thing he got.”
“All I know is Jack Walsh made a holographic will leaving everything to Jeremy Dawson and gave it to Jeremy to keep. You got anything more than that?”
Taylor shook his head. “That’s the scoop on the will, all right.”
“Any chance of seein’ a copy?”
“Not a prayer. The cops have it sewed up tight, and they won’t give it out till the D.A. says so. And from what I gather, that won’t be until they show it to the grand jury.”
“At which point I’ll be able to get a copy,” Steve said. “Big deal. Is that the bad news?”
“That’s just for starters. You know Walsh picked up Jeremy at his school yesterday?”
“Yeah. They got witnesses to that?”
“Sure thing. And that ain’t the half of it. They got a witness saw them in the subway station.”
“66th Street Station?”
“Yeah.”
“What time?”
“That’s the only saving grace. No one’s sayin’. And you’d think if it was around the time of the murder, they would.”
Steve frowned. “Yeah, maybe. Who’s the witness?”
“That’s hush-hush, and that’s the other good news. The cops won’t say.”
“Oh?”
“Right. And the way I figure, that means it’s unreliable. Speculation is it’s most likely another homeless.”
Steve frowned. “I see. Is that it?”
Taylor shook his head. “Wish it were. I saved the worst for last.”
“What’s that?”
“The kid’s a crack dealer.”
Steve Winslow’s jaw dropped open. “What!?”
Mark Taylor shook his head. “Sorry to be the one to bring it to you. But that’s the word. Jeremy Dawson sells crack.”
“You sure?”
“No, I’m just reporting what my men dug up.”
“No, damn it, I mean what’s the source? Has he ever been busted? Does he have a record?”
“No, not unless you count bein’ suspended from school. But as far as a police record, he’s clean.”
“What about the school suspension-they catch him with the stuff?”
Taylor shook his head. “No, the way I get it, some honor student ratted on him. The principal called him in and suspended him for two days.”
“Did he admit it?”
“Would you expect him to?”
“No.”
“Then he probably didn’t. I don’t know. This is all just gossip. We haven’t interviewed the principal yet. So far, we’re pokin’ into this very low key.”
“The cops know this?”
“I’m sure they do. I have no direct confirmation, but it’s the sort of thing they don’t miss.”
Steve shook his head. “Jesus Christ.”
“Puts you in a hell of a position, doesn’t it?”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“Still gonna represent him?”
“I told him I would.”
“That was before you knew this.”
“So?”
“So the kid lied to you. At least, held out on you. Got you to represent him under false pretenses.”
“What if he did?”
“I’m saying you got a perfect right to back out.”
“Why? Because the kid didn’t say, ‘By the way, I happen to be a crack dealer?’ Can you imagine any teenager in the world who would?”
“I can’t imagine any teenage crack dealer who would. Which is the whole point. The kid’s a loser. You wanna stick up for a crack dealer? In this day and age, that’s just askin’ for it. Particularly someone in your position.”
Steve looked at him. “And just what’s that supposed to mean?”
Taylor took a breath. “Look, Steve. You only had two cases. Your last one, you did real good. You did real good on both of ‘em, but the last one, you came off lookin’ good. Your first case, frankly, you came off lookin’ like a schmuck.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Look, you know what I mean. You turned things around in terms of your career. Now you got a chance to move forward. Defendin’ a crack dealer ain’t gonna help.”
“You’re missing the point, Mark. I’m not defending him for selling crack. I’m defending him for murder.”
“What’s the difference?”
Steve took a breath. “There’s a big difference if he didn’t do it. Even the scum of the earth’s entitled to a fair trial. If he didn’t kill his uncle, he shouldn’t go to jail for murder just because he happens to deal crack.”
Taylor held up his hands. “Yeah, sure. He’s presumed innocent until proven guilty. He’s entitled to a fair trial. He has the right to a lawyer. There’s just no reason that lawyer has to be you.”
Steve looked at him. He chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Taylor said.
“Nothing. I just said almost the same thing to someone just the other day.”
“So?”
“So,” Steve said, “I told the kid I’m gonna represent him, I’m gonna represent him. So he held out on me and he’s a less than model citizen. What else is new? In an ideal world, you’d be able to like your clients. In real life it doesn’t happen that way. Because if they were such good people to begin with, they probably wouldn’t be clients.”
“So you’re gonna represent him?”
“Sure I’m gonna represent him. And I’m gonna get him off, too. If that makes me look bad to some people, well that’s just tough.”
“You really think you can get him off?” Tracy put in.
“I don’t see why not. Cops don’t have that much of a case. They got the will for motivation, that’s the biggie. And the fact that he was seen with his uncle. For one thing, that was much earlier in the afternoon. For another thing, the witness is totally unreliable.
“And then there’s the cause of death. I’d hate to be in the prosecutor’s shoes trying to argue that one. He waits until he falls asleep and then douses him with gasoline and sets him on fire? In a subway station no less?” Steve shook his head. “No, what they got so far won’t do it. It’s not enough that he was seen with his uncle. They need someone who saw him set the body on fire. Or at least someone saw him buy the gasoline. Have they got anything like that?”
Taylor shook his head. “Not so far. If they do, they’re not letting it out.”
The phone rang. Tracy Garvin reached out, picked it up. “Steve Winslow’s office … Uh huh. Just a minute.” She handed the phone to Mark Taylor. “It’s for you.”
Taylor took the phone, said, “Mark Taylor here.” He listened for a couple of minutes, punctuating the conversation with dull, toneless ‘uh huhs,’ and hung up the phone with a look on his face that would have done credit to a mortician.
“Well?” Steve said.
Taylor took a breath. “Look, Steve,” he said. “Are you committed to defend this kid no matter what?”
“I already told you that.”
“Well then you just got a major kick in the balls. The cops got a search warrant for Jeremy Dawson’s school locker. You know what they turned u
p? Twenty-eight vials of crack, some drug paraphernalia and a thirty-two-caliber automatic.”
“What!?” Steve said.
“That’s right. He’s heavy into drugs, and I do mean heavy. Now I don’t know if he was really playin’ with the big boys, or if the gun was just for show, but in any event he had it.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah,” Taylor said. “And you don’t know the half of it. They just got the report back from the medical examiner. He determined the cause of death.”
“So?” Steve said. “The cause of death was burning and/or asphyxiation, right?”
“The cause of death,” Mark Taylor said dryly, “was a thirty-two-caliber bullet fired directly into the back of the head.”
23
Jeremy Dawson looked like a sulky kid.
“You left a few things out, Jeremy.”
Jeremy said nothing, kept his head down.
“You didn’t tell me you dealt crack. You didn’t tell me you had a gun.”
Jeremy shifted slightly, continued to look at the floor.
“You don’t seem surprised I know all this. Did the cops talk to you?”
No response.
“I asked you a question. The cops talk to you?”
“Yeah.”
“What’d you tell ‘em?”
Jeremy raised his eyes then, defiantly. “Just what you told me. I got nothin’ to say, talk to my lawyer.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah, that’s all.”
“But they didn’t let up. They kept after you. They kept asking you questions. They show you vials of crack?”
“Yeah.”
“They show you a gun?”
“Yeah.”
“They ask you where you got them?”
No response.
“Hey, kid, wake up. This is not high-school time. I’m not a teacher askin’ you why you were late for class. This is a murder here. If they nail you for it, it’s gonna be a little worse than bein’ kept after school. So quit sulking, grow up and answer some questions. Did they ask you where you got them?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you tell them?”
“See my lawyer.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t answer any questions, you didn’t try to explain anything?”
“Hell, no.”
Steve Winslow was sure he hadn’t. Some kids’ reaction would be to try to lie their way out of it. Jeremy’s would be to pull himself into his shell and sulk.
“O.K., fine,” Steve said. “You did good. I didn’t want you to talk, and you didn’t talk. The problem is, now you got in the habit. And I need you to talk to me. So let’s shift gears here, get yourself into your talking mode, ’cause you got things to say.”
Jeremy looked at him, hostile, defiant. Steve Winslow wanted very much to walk out. He fought the urge.
“O.K. Now, where did you get the gun?”
“Shit.”
“Hey, I’m your lawyer. You can tell me anything. If I’m going to help you, you have to tell me things. The prosecutor’s gonna throw the evidence at you, and I gotta fight it. I can’t do that unless I know what’s up. Now where did you get the gun?”
Jeremy snuffled. “Connection.”
“What?”
“My connection. For crack.”
“Who’s that?”
Jeremy shrugged. “Black guy from Harlem.”
“He gave it to you?”
“Sold it to me.”
“What’s his name?”
“Dunno.”
“You’re dealing with the guy, you don’t know his name?”
“Calls himself the Main Man. It’s not his name though.”
“No shit. So he sold you the gun?”
“Yeah.”
“For how much?”
“Seventy-five.”
“Seventy-five bucks?”
“Yeah.”
“Why’d you need a gun?”
No answer.
“Damn it, these are the questions that count. Why’d you need a gun?”
“He said I might need it.”
“Your connection?”
“Yeah.”
“It was his idea?”
“Partly.”
“What do you mean, partly?”
“Well, I mentioned I might want to have one.”
“Oh, did you?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I dunno.”
“And he thought you might need one?”
“Yeah.”
“Why would he think that?”
“I dunno.”
Steve looked at him a moment. “I do. You want to be a big man, you’re trying to impress the guy, act tough. You tell him you need a gun.”
Jeremy said nothing.
“Anyway, he got you one.”
“Yeah.”
“This drug dealer-the Main Man-how old is he?”
“I dunno. Fifteen, sixteen.”
Steve shook his head. “Jesus Christ.” He took a breath. “So tell me about the gun.”
“What about it?”
“You ever fire it?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“You ever fire the fucking gun?”
“Hey man, easy. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is, you’re up for murder. You may not understand these questions, but you don’t have to. You’re a stupid kid who don’t know shit. I’m the lawyer who’s gotta get you out of here. You want me to do that job, then do me a favor. Stop thinking. Don’t think at all. You know why? You’re not good at it. It just gets in the way. So stop trying to figure out why I’m asking the questions, and just answer the fucking things.”
Jeremy’s face reddened. “Hey, fuck you.”
Steve smiled. “Son of a bitch, I got a rise out of you. Good. Now, while I have your full attention-did you ever fire the gun?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“When I got it.”
“When was that?”
“I dunno. A month ago.”
“Why’d you fire the gun?”
“I wanted to.”
Steve raised his hand. “Hey, kid, I don’t care how much crack you do, you can’t be that dumb. Why’d you fire the gun is a question asking for an explanation. What’d you fire it at, did you fire it at a person? If so, did you hit him, kill him? Where and when did this happen? Shit, Jeremy, just for fun, try to answer my questions like a human being. Now tell me about firing the gun.”
“I was just practicing.”
“Where?”
“Junkyard.”
“Where?”
“Queens.”
“When?”
“Right after I got it.”
“Why’d you do it?”
Jeremy shrugged. “Just to test it out.”
“How many times you fire it?”
“Once.”
“Why only once?”
“It was cold. It stung my hand.”
“Were you wearing gloves?”
“Yeah. And it was awkward with the gloves.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“What?”
“That you were wearing gloves. If you didn’t fire it again, there won’t be powder marks on your hands.”
“Oh.”
“So did you fire it again?”
“No.”
“That was the only time?”
“Yeah. What’s this about powder marks on my hands?”
“When you fire a gun, it leaves powder traces on your hand. A paraffin test can show that you fired one.”
Jeremy looked interested. “So if there’s no powder traces on my hands, it’ll prove I didn’t do it?”
“No, they’ll say you were wearing gloves.”
“Oh.”
“But it’s better than if there was, you got it?”
“Yeah.”
�
�It’s still bad. If it turns out it was your gun killed your uncle — and I’ll bet it was-you’re in deep shit. It was your gun, you kept it in your locker, your uncle winds up dead, you were seen with your uncle, the gun is found in your locker. Add that up and tell me how it looks to you.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“So you say. No one’s gonna take your word for that. We have to deal with the facts. Now if it was your gun did it, who could have done it but you?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“Well, who has the combination to your locker?”
“No one.”
“No one?”
“Yeah.”
“Now that can’t be right.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause if it is, they got you dead to rights on a murder rap, and nothing I can do is gonna save you. So let’s think about that. Who has the combination to your locker?”
Jeremy frowned. “Shit, I don’t know.”
“Maybe you gave it to a friend or a relative.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Great. Well, maybe someone had to pick something up for you from school.”
“Not that I know.”
“O.K., we’ll do it another way. You got the combination written down somewhere?”
“Yeah.”
“Where.”
“Piece of paper.”
“I figured that. Where’s the piece of paper?”
“In my wallet.”
“You carry the combination to your locker around in your wallet?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s it say on the paper?”
“The combination.”
“I know that. What else. Does it say, ‘Jeremy Dawson’s locker combination?’”
“No, just the string of numbers.”
“Three numbers?”
“Yeah.”
“With dashes between ‘em?”
“Yeah.”
“And this was on a piece of paper folded up in your wallet?”
“Yeah.”
“So anybody looked in your wallet, they would find it.”
“Who’s gonna look in my wallet?”
“You tell me.”
“How the hell should I know?”
“You ever lose your wallet, you leave it lying around?”
“No.”
“You’re not bein’ much help.”
“What can I tell you? If I don’t know, I don’t know. There’s no way you can prove someone saw my wallet.”
“I know that. I can’t prove it. I have to raise the inference someone did.”
