by Parnell Hall
About a quarter to eight it all fell apart.
An unmarked police car drove up and Sergeant Thurman got out.
By rights I should like Sergeant Thurman. He's the one police officer who actually makes me look good. A square jawed, barrelchested man, Thurman resembles an assistant football coach-big enough to get the job, not bright enough to do it. I have had runins with Thurman in the past. He didn't think much of my abilities, and the feeling was mutual.
If Thurman was Kessler's bodyguard, the schoolteacher was good as dead.
Thurman went up the front steps, rang the doorbell, and was buzzed in. I didn't like that. It meant any schnook with the balls to ring the bell and say "Officer Gotsagoo" could get in.
Ten minutes later Sergeant Thurman came out, looked up and down the street for assassins. He could not have been more obvious had he used binoculars. Satisfied, he went back in and came out with Martin Kessler.
That was an ominous portent. Thurman hadn't spotted me. What were his odds of his spotting a sniper?
Kessler got in the car without getting shot. Sergeant Thurman walked around the front, climbed into the driver's seat next to him. The car pulled out.
So far, so good. Anyone who wanted to kill Kessler would have to kill Thurman. Which would be some consolation.
We got to school without incident. Unless you count getting stuck behind a garbage truck on one of the side streets. I thought Thurman was going to hop out and ticket the guy.
We hit the school at ten after eight. Thurman pulled up at the curb, got out, and looked around.Which was kind of funny. He was in a sea of students. In this mass of humanity, what could he be looking for? What could possibly stand out?
All right, I set myself up for that one. I'm a sexist pig who should have an apple shoved in his mouth and be roasted on a spit. What could possibly stand out but the perky, young breasts of my favorite teacher, bar none, the one I'd met a mere fleeting second when she'd advised me Martin Kessler was still in school. Actually, she'd advised the kids I asked, and not really spoken to me at all, but I think that's being overly technical, considering the extent of the pulchritude.
At any rate, she was in the crowd, and if Sergeant Thurman missed her, he was not only a bad cop, he had probably been neutered.
Thurman, satisfied, bewildered, or just not giving a shit, concluded his surveillance.
I shook my head. Thurman was doing everything wrong. You don't stand next to the protectee. You go in front of the protectee. Look for people taking an interest in the protectee. Thurman's tactic would only work if he had a partner who was hanging back, looking to see if anyone was taking an interest in the two of them. But Thurman always worked alone. Which was not surprising. Who would want to work with Thurman?
Ironically, I would.
I slid from my car, tagged along behind, functioning as Thurman's backup, on guard for any undue interest in Martin Kessler.
There was none, except for Perky Breasts, who pushed through the crowd to engulf him in what had to be one hell of a hug. Evidently, news of his near demise had gotten around, and his fellow colleague wanted to show her support. (Write your own punch line there. I'm in enough trouble as it is.)
Kessler didn't look sorry to see her. But Thurman looked ready to take her down with a flying tackle. Which wouldn't have been that bad a move, all things considered. But his impulse was no doubt based on the assumption the woman was attempting to squeeze the teacher to death. Anyway, he said a few words that caused the young lady to cease and desist, and the three of them marched in the front door.
Ten minutes later Thurman came out, got in his car, and drove off. Which told the story. The police assumed Kessler was safe in school. They'd leave him alone until after classes.
That worked for me. I was tired, and I could use a break.
Before I even had a chance to enjoy the anticipation, Wendy/Janet beeped me with an emergency photo assignment.
30
JEROME ROBINSON, WHO'D FALLEN ON uneven pavement crossing Ocean Avenue, had managed to break his leg, his pelvis, and his neck. I kid you not. At first glance, Jerome Robinson had to be the unluckiest motherfucker who ever lived, sustaining multiple horrendous injuries, each more gruesome than the last. When I interviewed him in the hospital, the poor guy could barely sign the retainer. But sign he did, even if I had to guide the pen. This was one client who wasn't getting away. Richard had gotten a hard-on at the extent of the injuries, and in the event that there was liability, he wanted to be the personal injury attorney with a shot at it.
Which is where Jerome Robinson went from being the unluckiest son of a bitch who ever walked the planet to the luckiest, bar none, because the faulty pavement that tripped him turned out to have been registered. Under New York City's pothole law, only irregularities in the street that had been reported but not repaired made the city negligent. This law, enacted to unclog the court system and keep the city from going bankrupt, was one of Richard Rosenberg's pet peeves. Without it, Richard maintained, he would be wealthy. The fact that he was wealthy in spite of it did not seem to cheer him.
At any rate, nothing made Richard's day so much as a registered pothole. A registered pothole resulting in a broken neck was like winning the lottery. Richard couldn't wait to see the pictures.
Location of Accident pictures are usually taken at the time of the sign-up, particularly when they're in the vicinity and the client is able to point them out. In this case, the sign-up occurred in the hospital, and the client couldn't point at his dick.When that happens, the signup is handed in, then Location of Accident pictures will be ordered as a separate assignment if the lawyer decides to take the case.
Due to the extent of the injuries, Richard had told Wendy/ Janet to order the pictures at once and dispatch a paralegal to determine the status of the pothole. The paralegal reported back before I got to the pictures. Richard had a shit fit, and Wendy/Janet wore out the phone beeping me to go take them.
Jerome Robinson opened the door to let me in. He was miraculously mobile for a man with a broken neck. Richard would be unhappy with his progress. I wondered if I should send him back to bed.
Mr. Robinson was an agile black man who could have played power forward for the New York Knicks if it weren't for his injuries. Considering the current state of the Knicks, he probably could have played with his injuries. He was eager, affable, positively delighted the lawyer was taking his case. I didn't tell him the feeling was mutual. I pointed out how lucky he was to have found an attorney who was thorough enough to have investigated his complaint and found it to have merit. We all agreed on that, and then I went out to take the Location of Accident pictures.
That part of the assignment I could have done for myself. In fact, the entire photo assignment didn't need Jerome Robinson at all. But the gentleman had been so enthusiastic I had been told to call on him to keep him happy. For my money, there was no need. Jerome Robinson was born happy. Even a broken neck couldn't slow him down.
It slowed me down, however. Jerome lived in a fourth-floor walk-up. Game though he might be, an invalid on crutches doesn't go down stairs very well. It would be just my luck to have him fall, break something else, and sue me.
Somehow we made it down and negotiated the two blocks to the scene of the accident.
I had no problem recognizing the pothole. The description and location were right on the money. It was an ugly sucker, an irregular rhombus carved in the street, with jagged bits of tar and asphalt sticking out to lacerate an injudicious pedestrian. It occurred to me it was a good thing I had Mr. Robinson, after all. I could pose him next to it. Show the extent of the defect, nicely balancing the extent of the injury.
"Wow, that's something," I said.
"Tol' you," Jerome Robinson said. "Din' I tell you?"
I turned to him, and the smile froze on my face.
Jerome Robinson was looking in the opposite direction. At a pothole on the other side of the street. A formidable defect, but not nearly as
bad as this one. It was round, the edges were smooth, nothing was cracked or jagged. It would be hell to photograph. Only the best lighting and angles could show there was any depression whatsoever. I'd have to stick a ruler in, and even that wouldn't play, shooting from above. It could read as anywhere from half a foot to an inch.
But that was nothing. A mere hiccup. I've taken worse Location of Accident photos before. That wasn't the problem.
It was the wrong fucking pothole. It wasn't registered. No matter how severe the injuries one might have sustained tripping on it, it wasn't worth a cent.
I cleared my throat. "Mr. Robinson, I'm not sure that's your pothole."
He frowned, a 'scuse-me smile on his face. "Wha' you talkin' about?"
"It's important that we're very accurate here. Because we're going to go into court and everything, and they're going to ask you a lot of questions. So we want to be on the same page. Now, you've been laid up in bed for a while. And I've been going on the descriptions and everything. And it seems to me from the story I heard that the pothole that tripped you is most likely this one over here"
Jerome looked, grinned a puzzled grin. "Well, it ain't."
I considered that. Said, "But it might be."
No smile now. "What the hell you talkin' about?"
I put up my hands in a placating manner. "Don't get concerned. I am looking out for your best interests. We all want to get you what you deserve, that's the most important thing. If you think that's the pothole that tripped you, that's good enough for me. Let's go take pictures of it."
We did. From every conceivable angle. With Jerome Robinson beside the pothole grinning and pointing it out. With Jerome Robinson's foot in the pothole to show the size of it. With Jerome Robinson's crutch in the pothole. Hell, I'd have shot one with Jerome Robinson's dick in the pothole if it would have made the guy happy.
When I was done, I popped the roll of film out of the camera, put a fresh roll in.
"Now then," I said, "let's take some pictures just for insurance."
He looked at me. "Wha' you mean?"
I pointed. "The pothole over here. The one you don't think is your pothole. Let's take pictures of it anyway. Tell you why. You've had a hard fall, multiple injuries, including a broken neck. The defense may claim you hit your head, you can't be clear on what you saw, on what you remember. They may introduce an EMS team that recalls picking you up from the other side of the street. Now, we may want to have you testify that you were absolutely clear on where you were hit, and what the other side of the street was. Our attorney may want to put you on the stand, have you point at these pictures, and say, `That's not where I fell.' Or he may have another use for 'em. I'm not an attorney. But I always know in a situation like this it pays to take as many photos as possible. To keep all your options open and not close any doors.You don't want to hamstring your attorney by doing a half-ass job. So I want to take some pictures of you next to this pothole just to be safe."
Jerome Robinson nodded. "You want me pointin' goin', `Huhuh, tha' ain' it'?"
"I don't think so. That would look stagy. I want the pictures to be more from the point of view of you showing the disgraceful condition of the street. Can you do that?"
Jerome frowned. "`Suppose."
And he did. And I shot him. And I didn't feel good about it. Because I was faced with a moral dilemmnia. And I had failed to take the high ground. I had, instead, taken the coward's way out.
Here was a seriously injured man who needed help. Of all the goldbrickers I'd signed up in my day, the worthless deadbeats with next to no injury hoping to beat the system for a couple of bucks, Jerome Robinson wasn't one of them. He was a seriously injured man who needed help. Help with his medical bills, help from missing work. A man who couldn't afford Aflac and didn't have a duck helping him recuperate. Here he was, dorked by a technicality.
Maybe so, but the law is the law. Circumventing the law is illegal. Attorneys do it all the time. But that, apparently, is their job. And it isn't mine. My job is to gather the evidence and present it to the attorney.
In this case, the evidence indicated the client had fallen in an unregistered pothole, thereby making him ineligible to sue. My job was to gather that evidence and present it to Richard Rosenberg. The fact that there was a perfectly good registered pothole not fifty feet away was none of my business. If I hadn't known about it, I never would have looked at it. But knowing it was there put me on the horns of a moral dilemma. Should I pursue a suit I knew to be fraudulent? Or should I take the client at his word and photograph his worthless pothole?
Had I done that, Richard would have killed me.
So I had taken the coward's way out. I had passed the moral dilemma along. Here, Richard. Here's the worthless pothole your client fell in. And here's the pothole worth millions that had nothing to do with anything.
Your move.
31
BY THE TIME I DID two more cases and stopped by my office to pick up the mail, all bills, it was close to three thirty when I got back to the school. Thurman's car was double-parked out front. I lucked into a parking space, mingled with the crowd of students hanging out on the sidewalk who either had no last period or were cutting it. I saw a few teacher types, including one who looked almost as much like a football coach as Sergeant Thurman. The teacher of my dreams was not among them. Nor were the baggypanted presumed dope-dealer and his girlfriend, who didn't figure to he there since they were in Kessler's class.
I wove my way through the students, most of whom were smoking. It was hard to believe kids still did that in the face of the medical evidence now available. They probably figured by the time they grew up there'd be a cure for cancer. That's what niy generation figured.
I hung out with the kids, tried to recall what Hitman #2 looked like. On the plus side, he wasn't a kid. That knocked out most of the people present. On the minus side, his features were rather nondescript. Not too old, not too young, not too tall, not too short, not too fat, not too thin. Hair short, dark, and curly; eyes I couldn't begin to tell you; general impression dull, your ordinary everyday working stiff.
Of course, at the time I'd seen hint, I'd thought he was the mark. Even knowing he was the shooter, I couldn't build up much enthusiasm for him. As far as I could tell, the guy projected zero personality. Probably a plus for a hitman. He could blend right into a crowd.
But not this crowd. In this crowd of students he'd stand out.
Like I was.
I noticed a certain percentage of the students edging away from me. Which was kind of amusing. I was like a dope-sniffing dog. Drop me into the middle of a group of people and arrest the ones who left.
Anyway, from my vantage point in the center of everything I surveyed the street for signs of drivers. There were some, of course, parents waiting to pick up their kids. None looked like a hitman. At least, none looked like Hitman #2.
I checked the windows in the buildings across the street. All were brownstones. None would offer easy access. But a hitman could pick a lock on a vacant apartment, set up at home while the occupant was away at work. Load his rifle. Adjust his telescopic sight.
I watch way too many movies.
Naturally, I spotted nothing. I didn't figure to. The killer wouldn't show himself so soon. The killer wouldn't make a move until the bell, when school ended and half a zillion kids came out. Then the shooter could slip into the crowd, elbow his way up behind Martin Kessler, and put two rounds in the back of his head before anyone knew what was happening. With an ugly long silencer that barely made a pop.
It could easily happen with Thurman in charge, the good sergeant not even realizing a move had been made on Kessler until the teacher dropped at his feet. Embarrassing though that might be for the police department, it would be totally frustrating for me, the culmination of my utter failure to do my job, losing both my client and the man he'd hired me to protect.
The bell rang, the doors burst open, and a steady stream of students and teachers poured f
rom the building. Mingling into the stream were Martin Kessler and Sergeant Thurman, the latter in full dumbass mode, walking just a step behind, ever vigilant to protect the professor from students who sought extensions on their papers. Jesus Christ, is the guy even looking around?
I was, and I saw her. Just over Kessler's left shoulder. Trailing along as if she were a groupie and he were a rock star. Thurman must not have let her walk with him. An interesting choice, for Thurman. I'd have thought he'd have used her for a shield.
I saw him before Thurman did. To be fair, I'd seen him before and I recognized him. But even so. He was what Thurman was on guard for. Also, to be fair, I didn't see hirn slip into the crowd. But I saw him making his way through it. Coming up on Kessler from the right and slightly behind.Which also put him on Sergeant Thurman's right and slightly behind. And slightly behind the teacher with the tits. Sorry, but I don't know her name. But he's behind her, and he's got something in his hand. Something gleaming that I can't quite see.
He was in direct line now. Him, her, Kessler, me. With Thurman in front of them and to the left. Thurman hasn't spotted me, I know, because he'd have reacted, most likely to the extent of leaving Kessler entirely forgotten while he reamed me out. But no chance of that. The guy was oblivious.
I could see it all in slow motion. The four of them coming at rne. Hitman #2 making his move. Stepping in front of Attractive Teacher. Raising his arm. Just as I stepped in front of Thurman. Heading for Martin Kessler.
It had not been a conscious decision. Trust me, it was not the type of conscious decision I make. Given time to consider it, I would opt for the opposite. But my muscles, as if of their own accord, were sending me forward diagonally across Sergeant Thurman's vision in a long, awkward lunge at Martin Kessler. Tackling the startled schoolteacher and pulling hint out of the path of the intended bullet.
Even Sergeant Thurman couldn't miss that. His head turned, his eyes widened in amazement, as Kessler went down. Revealing, directly behind us, Hitman #2, in all his naked glory, silenced automatic raised, aiming at empty air where Kessler had just been, even as he squeezed the trigger.
