Flesh and Bones: A Jake Lassiter Novel

by Paul Levine

  I put down the manual and did a little sidestep toward the defense table, forcing the judge's gaze toward the lovely defendant. She looked as helpless and innocent as an angel without wings. "If Christina Bernhardt was suffering from flashbacks or blackouts which coincided with the shooting, she made no conscious decision to shoot the gun and could not be guilty of murder one. If she's been overcharged, bond should be granted."

  "Blackouts," the judge mused. "Flashbacks. Is that your case, Jake?"

  Using my given name. A little familiarity, asking me to cut the bullshit and level with the court. What's the trial going to be all about? I had already summarized Dr. Schein's opinion, right down to Sigmund Freud's view of repression as a defense mechanism used to suppress psychic trauma.

  "That is the proffer of Dr. Schein's testimony," I said, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Socolow shoot me a look. He doesn't miss much, and he didn't miss this. I hadn't answered the question.

  Just before the bailiff called our case, I had huddled with Chrissy in the jury room, our courthouse being woefully insufficient in meeting space. "I look terrible," she said, fiddling with her hair, which was held back in a ponytail with a simple rubber band.

  "You look beautiful," I told her, violating another of my rules, the one about maintaining a professional distance from the clients. I don't go fishing with the guy customers and I don't go to bed with the gals.

  "Am I going to testify?" she asked.

  "Not today. But before we go in there, I need to tell you something. Dr. Schein is prepared to testify that you may have suffered a blackout before the shooting, that you were in a trancelike state when you shot your father."

  She looked at me with those bright green eyes. "You're asking me a question, aren't you? Like, is that the way it happened?"

  I held my breath and nodded.

  "Do you want the truth?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said.

  No, I thought. I can't handle the truth.

  "I didn't black out. I wasn't in a trance. I saw Daddy sitting there, so pleased with himself. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to hear his screams. I wanted him to hurt as much as he had hurt me. But did I want to kill him? I don't know. I really don't."

  "Doesn't matter. If you understood that your actions created a strong likelihood of death, you're guilty of premeditated murder."

  Her eyes opened wider, seemed to ask a pleading question: What are we going to do? I didn't know. I came into the courtroom drowning in my dilemma, the ethical conflict of a lawyer who owes the highest duty of loyalty to his client and a somewhat more vague duty to the legal system.

  Now, I was doing a high-wire act, portraying our defense in terms of "if." If there had been a blackout, blah, blah, blah. At trial, it becomes more difficult. I wouldn't be able to put Dr. Schein on the stand to testify to something Chrissy couldn't corroborate. And now that she told me she had known very well what she was doing, I couldn't let her take the stand to say she had blacked out, even if she wanted to. I've never lied to the court or let a client do it. I like to win, but I like to win fair and square. I know it's old-fashioned, but that's the way I am. I like the low-scoring, smash-mouth, frozen-field Big Ten game, not the lah-de-dah, point-a-minute passing of touch football in the SEC. I hate guys who jitterbug in the end zone after scoring a touchdown. Celebration of self, dirty dancing, and taunting opponents have no place in the game I love.

  When I was at Penn State, Joe Paterno ordered us to hand the ball to the official should we ever be so fortunate as to cross the goal line while carrying the leather spheroid. "Act as if you've been there before," he said. I hadn't, but in a game against Pitt, I blocked a punt in the end zone, not with my hands, but with my head. The ball stuck in my face mask and gave me a concussion. I thought I should have had a touchdown, but the officials ruled it a safety because I never had possession of the ball . . . my helmet did. It took two equipment managers to get the ball out of the mask, and I saw double for a week. But I had scored. Two points for my career.

  "So, to paraphrase your argument," Judge Stanger said, spitting out a few fibers of Cuban tobacco, "you're seeking bond as if this were a second-degree or manslaughter case."

  "That's what they should have charged," I responded, "but let there be no mistake, Your Honor. Our plea is not guilty. We'll be seeking an instruction under 782.03 on excusable homicide."

  "That's outrageous!" Socolow thundered. "This wasn't an accident. That's the most absurd argument I've ever heard in a courtroom."

  "You've lived a sheltered life," I whispered to Abe, then turned back toward the judge. "Accident is not the only statutory excuse for homicide, Your Honor." Again, I picked up the book. Even when I've memorized the statute, it somehow seems more authentic if I read it to the court. "A killing is excusable and therefore lawful when done by 'accident or misfortune in the heat of passion, upon any sudden and sufficient provocation.' "

  "Where's the heat of passion?" Socolow demanded, his face reddening. "Where's the provocation? Harry Bernhardt was sitting at the bar sipping mojitos, for crying out loud."

  "The provocation could very well have been the flashback," I said, choosing my words carefully. "A flashback of the decedent raping my client could have been just as real as if it were happening now."

  Could have been. Maintaining my integrity by hedging.

  "What's the precedent for this?" Socolow demanded.

  "It's a simple application of the law," I said. "A woman is lawfully justified in using deadly force to resist a rape. Therefore, if Christina Bernhardt thought she was being raped at that moment, then—"

  "Nonsense!" Socolow thundered. "That's not the intent of the statute." I listened a few minutes as Socolow railed against the newfangled theories under which the wily Jake Lassiter was trying to wrangle bond.

  Finally, the judge cut him off with a wave of his cigar, an orchestra conductor with his baton. "Okay, that's enough from both of you. Save it for trial." He made a note on the jacket of the court file. "This court has never before granted bond in a first-degree murder case. However . . ."

  I loved that however.

  ". . . I find that the defendant has no prior criminal record or history of violence, and Mr. Lassiter raises a substantial defense, albeit a novel one. Motion for bond granted. Cash or surety in the amount of one million dollars."

  A million bucks? Ouch! That's like no bond at all.

  "Defendant is to surrender her passport and not leave the confines of Dade and Broward counties without notice to the prosecution and leave of the court."

  Judge Stanger banged his gavel, stood up, and left by the rear door to his chambers. His cigar was lit before the door closed behind him.

  Socolow gave me a wry smile and a raised eyebrow. "Flashbacks and blackouts, Jake? I can hardly wait."

  Chrissy Bernhardt hugged me and gave me a peck on the cheek. "Am I getting out of jail?"

  "Only if you have a guardian angel. A very rich guardian angel."

  From the gallery, a man I didn't know approached the defense table. He was about forty, stocky, with black hair slicked straight back, a brown western-style suit with shoulder piping, a gold ring in one ear. And a checkbook in his hand.

  I knew who he was as soon as he opened his mouth. The same gravelly rumble of a voice I'd heard that deadly night. And now that I studied him, Guy Bernhardt looked a lot like his father. Thin-lipped, thick-necked, small piggy eyes. Seeing Chrissy's half brother made me realize how lucky she was to carry her mother's genes or, as Granny would say, favor her mama.

  Guy gave Chrissy a hug and a look of either genuine concern or rehearsed sincerity, I couldn't tell which. "I don't know why you did it, Sis," he said, "and I'm heartbroken to lose Pop. But I'll do whatever I can to help."

  "Thank you, Guy," Chrissy said. "I'm sorry. I know you loved him. I'm sorry for you, but not for him."

  Guy nodded as if he understood. "Anything you need, just ask. If I'm not in the office, have them track me down. All hell's
broken loose with Pop gone; I'm trying to keep things together while we sort through all the companies. He let me run the day-to-day operations, but he kept a lot of the business in his head."

  Chrissy hugged him and thanked him again. Then Guy Bernhardt took me by the arm and steered me away from the defense table. "The bond's no problem," he said in a whisper. "I'll pay the premium, put up some property as collateral if that's okay."

  "It's fine. It's better than fine. There aren't too many defendants who can put up a million-dollar bond."

  He signed his name to a blank check and handed it to me. "Anything I can do to help your case, you just ask."

  "Sometime soon, I'm going to want to sit down with you, ask what you know about Chrissy and your father."

  "It's hard for me to believe he molested her, if that's what you mean. I knew Pop better than anyone in the world, and . . . it's just not like him."

  "I've been taking a cram course on the subject, and that's what everyone always says."

  "Who's everyone?"

  "Family members always say 'Not him' when a loved one is charged with incest. It's gotten to be a real cliché, like the neighbors saying the serial killer next door was real quiet and liked to keep to himself."

  His look hardened. "Look, Lassiter, I'm on your side. I don't want Chrissy to go to prison. Sis is a delicate thing, has been since she was a little girl. Her mother spoiled her, so did Pop. I've been talking to Larry Schein, and my advice is, plead insanity, work out some deal for confinement and treatment. I'll pay the bills, the best damn place where they handle this sort of thing. I've already looked into it. There's a private hospital just outside Seattle that's supposed to be first rate. Expensive as hell, but so what?"

  A ringing came from inside his coat pocket, and he pulled out a cellular phone, punched a button, and looked at me apologetically. After a couple of short "yeahs," he covered the phone with a meaty hand and said to me, "I gotta take this. Whenever you want, call me to set up a meeting. I mean it. Anything you need, just ask."

  He headed back down the row of pews toward the door, speaking in hushed tones into the phone, and in a moment he was gone.

  A female bailiff took Chrissy back into a holding cell where she'd wait until I could get the bond processed. So I stood there alone in the empty courtroom.

  Thinking.

  Twice he had said it: "Anything you need, just ask."

  Here's what I wanted to ask: Why this talk about insanity? Dr. Schein hadn't said anything about it, at least not to me. Insanity means confinement and treatment. Maybe you get out, and maybe you're John Hinckley.

  And Seattle? There are a lot of institutions that are first rate, to use Guy's term. So why choose the one that's farthest from home?

  7

  Tracks of the Monster

  If you're a lawyer in a TV show, you handle only one case at a time, wrap it up by the last pitch for Pepto-Bismol, after which you're toting your briefcase down the courthouse steps with a beautiful client congratulating you for a wonderful job.

  Real life is different.

  After lunch, I avoided three phone calls from Roberto Condom, who was leaving messages with Cindy on how to plea-bargain his gator-poaching case, the gist being that he would give the Wildlife Commission fifty-seven live gator eggs to replace the grown animals he'd killed. Next time he called, I'd ask him just where he'd get the eggs without stealing them or hatching them himself.

  I also spent an hour not answering my mail, not drafting pleadings, and not attending a partners' meeting intended to choose new artwork for the office. The choice was between Wins-low Homer sailboats and Pablo Picasso nightmares. I once suggested that the conference room be decorated with several Jacques Cousteau shots of sharks in a feeding frenzy. No one took me seriously, except the managing partner, who slashed my bonus in half at the annual meeting where we devour thirty-two-ounce porterhouse steaks and carve up the profits. Firm motto:

  We eat what we kill. The spoils are divided (and eaten and drunk) at the Fiscal Year Banquet, as the firm brochure describes it. Pig Pool is a better description.

  Cindy was away from her desk, so I inadvertently accepted a call from Silvio Sánchez at the jail. He'd taken a fall as a serial diner, eating in expensive restaurants, just to get room and board on the county when he couldn't pay the tab. Now he wanted to sue because they don't serve decaffeinated coffee behind bars. All the caffeine was keeping him up, and surely that must violate his constitutional right to a good night's sleep.

  I interviewed a new client, a man wearing leather pants, loafers without socks, an open-necked silk shirt, and a gold chain. If they were doing a remake of Saturday Night Fever, maybe Morris Gold could get a part, even though he was fifty-three years old and his shiny black toupee was out of kilter.

  After he plopped down in the client chair, he asked, "Can I show you my dick?"

  "Let's get to know each other first," I said. "Now, how did you come to visit Dr. Pedro Cordeón?"

  "I saw his ad on TV. Right after American Gladiators."

  I nodded appreciatively, as if this were an act of great diligence worthy of praise.

  "So then I called the toll-free number, 1-8OO-BIG-COCK, for more information." Morris Gold pulled out a clipping and handed it to me.

  "Circumferential Autologous Penile Engorgement," I read aloud. "What the hell is that?"

  "CAPE. They liposuction fat from your stomach, then inject it into your dick. Makes it thicker." He winked and added with a little tune, "It takes two hands to handle the Whopper."

  "Clever," I said. "What seems to be the problem?"

  "You wanna see?"

  "Later we'll take photos, put you on Hard Copy, whatever you want. For now, just tell me what's wrong. Have you become impotent? Is it misshapen? Why do you want to sue for malpractice?"

  "It looks shorter."

  "Looks? Is it or isn't it?"

  "No, it's an optical illusion. By getting bigger around, my dick looks shorter. The doc should have warned me."

  Should have warned.

  Sure, we need to be warned not to stand on the top rung of a ladder, or not to crawl under the wheel when changing a tire, or that objects are closer than they appear in a rearview mirror. We are a fundamentally stupid people in the eyes of the law, and if we are surprised by perfectly logical risks in our lives, well . . . sue the bastards.

  I buzzed Cindy, interrupting her weekly routine of painting her toenails fuchsia. At my request, she ushered Morris Gold out of the office, but not before taking him up on the offer of a sneak peak. She also advised him to eat more legumes and cut out all lactose, but I haven't the slightest idea why.

  Having cleared my desk by simply placing everything on the floor, I opened Dr. Lawrence Schein's file and began reading. The notes corroborated what he had told me about Christina Bernhardt. Complaints of headaches, nightmares, feelings of dread. Bouts of insomnia alternating with patterns of lethargy and excessive sleep. Bulimia while a teenager, booze and cocaine by the time she hit twenty-one. A general, indefinable malaise for as long as she could remember. Blocks of missing memories from childhood.

  I slipped a cassette into a portable player on my desk, pushed the Play button, stood, and walked to the window. From the thirty-second floor, I could see the beach at Virginia Key. A steady line of whitecaps, corduroy to the horizon. Twenty knots from the southeast. A few boardsailors were on the water, their outhauls pulled taut. I imagined the multicolored sails crackling in the wind, the whistle of a steady breeze through the boom. But the next sound I heard wasn't the wind at all.

  "Do you feel you have to control your emotions?" Dr. Lawrence Schein asked.

  A pause. Then Chrissy's voice. "Doesn't everyone?"

  "No, not really. Do you overreact or misdirect your anger when you're frustrated?"

  "I suppose so. Sometimes."

  The scratch of pen on paper. Then, "Do you space out or daydream inappropriately?"

  Another pause, and I found myself dayd
reaming about windsurfing. Maybe inappropriately, who the hell knows?

  "Yes, I think so. I drift off sometimes."

  The questions kept coming. "Do you feel different from other people? . . . Do you feel you have to be perfect? . . . Do you use work or achievements to compensate for inadequate feelings in other parts of your life?"

  Chrissy answered tentatively but affirmatively, and so did I. And so would a large portion of the American public, I was reasonably sure. Still, I had an open mind. I am tolerant of what I don't understand, and even if it sounded like a Cosmo self-help quiz, maybe there was a defense to murder hidden in these tapes.

  It took several sessions to get down to it. From daydreams, the discussion turned to nightmares. Chrissy was having trouble remembering her dreams, and Dr. Schein was helping her out. "Can you recall any locked doors or hidden passageways?"

  "I don't think so," she said, her voice small and distant.

  "Waterfalls or rivers with dangerous rapids?"

  "No." In my mind's eye, I could see her shaking her head, a strand of blond hair falling across a cheekbone.

  "What about snakes?"

  A pause. "I've always been afraid of snakes—"

  "Aha!" Sounding like it's a major medical breakthrough. "Go on."

  "Yes. I've dreamed of snakes."

  "Were they nightmares? Did the snakes frighten you?"

  "Yes."

  "Now we're getting somewhere," Schein said. "Snakes are a phallic symbol, of course."

  Aw, come on. I've never had any training, but I would have asked if she had ever been frightened by a real snake. My neighborhood between Kumquat and Poinciana in the South Grove is home to a variety of reptiles, some of which are not even members of the Florida Bar. There's a four-foot-long jet-black Everglades racer that makes me jump every time I go out to pick mangoes. And yes, afterward, I've dreamed of snakes, too. The Lassiter Theory has it that dreams can reflect literally real incidents, not just metaphorical ones. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.