In Self-Defense

by A. W. Gray

  “Sounds pretty simple to me,” Teeter said.

  “It would be if Howard was alive. But now the only way I can be paid is to file a claim against Howard’s estate, with Mr. Jones the probate attorney over here. Which I did, legal and proper, a form executed by Wilfred Donello and notarized. Which brings us to this problem we’ve got.”

  Riggs paused to shoot a less than friendly glance at Dicky Waite. Waite expelled air through his nose and impatiently tapped his foot. Riggs went on:

  “It seems that there’s already a claim, in the same amount as my claim for fees, filed by Mr. Waite here. According to Mr. Waite’s claim, he’s representing Mr. Donello in his appeal. An appeal with which Mr. Donello no longer wishes to proceed.”

  Waite folded his arms. The sleeves of his Ultrasuede coat showed deep creases. “Ten grand,” he said. “Howard owed me ten grand.”

  “All I could do to help with that,” Teeter said, “is to check the file to see if there’s an appeal notice.” He gazed beyond the seated lawyers at the trophy displayed above the sofa. The trophy was the prize in the annual judges’ and prosecutors’ slow-pitch softball game, and was held for a year by the winning team’s most valuable player. Engraved on the statuette’s base was last year’s score: Felonies 22, Misdemeanors 18. Teeter had slugged two homers and held the Misdemeanors to thirty-seven hits, and he thought that the awarding of the trophy to Judge Briscoe was nothing but politics.

  “We’ve already checked,” Riggs said, “and there is no appeal notice on file.”

  “I got until tomorrow to file notice under the time limit,” Deadline Dicky said. “Look, everybody knows me and Howard were fraternity brothers. He calls me up and makes me a deal over the phone, not fifteen minutes before he died. If Howard was alive, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. His word was his bond.”

  “If that’s true,” Riggs said, “then how come the notation, made in Howard’s handwriting on the inside cover of the file, says you demanded a cashier’s check before you were lifting a finger? Everybody that’s been to law school knows that unless you received a consideration you didn’t have any deal. No consideration, no contract, it looks like to me.”

  “I’m not sure what I’ve got to do with this,” Teeter said, “but what’s wrong with filing two claims against Howard’s estate? That way Donello could get whatever he wants from Riggs, and Waite could go on with the appeal. Donello could have his cake and eat it, too.”

  “That would suit me and Vernon just fine,” Waite said. “Only he won’t go for it.” He pointed at Jones, who placed his elbows on his armrests and rested his chin on his intertwined fingers.

  “Mr. Saw lived high,” Jones said. “It’s true there was quite a bit of cash in the estate, but I’ve got a claim from the IRS for over half of it. That takes precedence. Then there’s a sworn note to Caesar’s Palace—”

  “In Vegas?” Teeter said.

  Jones nodded. “In addition to that there are credit card bills and whatnot. After everything’s settled, Mr. Saw’s estate comes to twenty-one thousand and change.”

  “I guess there was enough to bury Howard,” Teeter said.

  Jones smiled a conservative smile. “Oh, Howard had a burial policy. I recommended that when he first came to me to draw up the papers.”

  Teeter scratched his nose. “So what’s the problem? Twenty-one thousand, ten for Dicky, ten for Vernon, still leaves a grand or so.”

  Jones sat back and fiddled with his ear, not saying anything.

  “The problem is,” Riggs said, “that if I get my ten thousand and Dicky gets his ten thousand, there’s not enough left over for his fee.” He pointed at Jones.

  Teeter looked from one visiting lawyer to another. Finally the prosecutor spread his hands, palms up, in a shrugging gesture. “Well, hey. It looks like you’ve got some compromising to do. I still don’t see what the DA’s office has to do with—”

  “We’ve already hashed it out,” Riggs said, “and nobody wants to compromise. I’ve proposed a solution to Dicky that we do what’s best for the client.”

  Waite snorted. “Sure. As long as you get yours.”

  Riggs ignored the skinny lawyer. “Here’s the proposition,” he said. “What Donello wants from me, he wants me to talk to the district attorney, which is you in this case, Ed. He wants me to talk to the district attorney about making a deal for him. So I made a suggestion to these two guys. I’m going to tell you, just supposing, what the offer my client has in mind will be. My proposed client. If you as the DA’s rep tell me that we can make an arrangement for Donello, he’s going to waive his appeal in writing. That way Dicky Waite here won’t be entitled to a fee. But if we don’t have a makeable deal, then I’m going to withdraw.”

  “I still don’t like this,” Waite said glumly. “Either way he gets his.” He pointed at Jones. Jones folded conservative manicured hands in his lap.

  Teeter blinked. “Let me get this straight. Wilfred Donello’s coming to us, wanting to make a deal.”

  “That’s what he says,” Riggs said.

  “Jesus Christ,” Teeter said. “Seeing as how he’s already convicted, I don’t see that he’s in much of a bargaining position.”

  “The judge will go along with whatever sentence the DA recommends,” Riggs said. “You guys can give him probation if you’re a mind to.”

  “Sure we can,” Teeter said. “We can do anything we want. But Jesus Christ. Donello?”

  Riggs scratched his chin through his beard. “Mr. Donello wishes to offer certain information in exchange for leniency.”

  Teeter studied his nails. Now the conversation was drifting into his ball yard. “He wants to be a snitch, in other words.” He still didn’t like Vernon Riggs, but for now was prepared to put his animosity on hold. Snitches were the system’s lifeblood, and coming up with a gold-plated informant would be a feather in Teeter’s cap.

  Riggs’ mouth tugged to one side. “Well, if you want to call it that.”

  “Sure, we make deals all the time,” Teeter said. “I’ll listen to anything. But if he wants to tell us about some guy running a red light … hey, you know, fuck you, Donello.”

  Probate lawyer Jones threw Teeter an irritated glance, then resumed his conservative posture.

  “In my opinion,” Riggs said, “Mr. Donello’s information is entirely worthy of consideration. Of course, it’s for your ears only, Ed. Even though I don’t officially represent him, what Donello told me falls in the attorney-client category. Also, if we can’t make a deal, you can’t use the information.”

  Dicky Waite suddenly pounded the arm of his chair. “This is horseshit. I mean, they got me in the middle, you know? Either way this guy gets his.” He pointed at Jones. “Now Riggs has got this secret information that I don’t even know what the fuck it is. I could make Donello the same deal if I’d of gotten to him first.”

  “But you didn’t,” Riggs said. “He called me, remember?”

  “Fuck,” Waite said. He leaned his cheek against his clenched fist.

  “That’s between you guys,” Teeter said. “You and you”—he pointed at Waite, then at Jones—“go out in the hall. Me and Mr. Riggs have got some serious talking to do.”

  Dicky Waite and Samuel Jones sat on a bench in the narrow corridor outside the judge’s assistant’s office. The office door was closed; shadows moved over the frosted glass insert. The judge’s hallway entry was open; as the waiting attorneys watched, Rascally Ralph Briscoe tossed a Time magazine aside and picked up Entertainment Weekly. Dicky Waite nervously studied the floor. Samuel Jones returned his attention to the Bar Association bulletin he’d been reading. The hallway clock showed five until ten.

  There was a sudden click and rattle. The assistant’s door opened and Vernon Riggs came out with Ed Teeter close on his heels. The prosecutor seemed excited. Dicky Waite sagged on the bench.

 
Teeter gestured with his hands. “This is strictly hypothetical, right? I mean, we’ve got nothing solid as yet.”

  “Right,” Riggs said. “Nothing’s finalized until you get the bargain reduced to writing. Then you and I will take a trip over to the jail for Mr. Donello’s signature and talk to him in person. My guy tells you nothing until the judge agrees to the sentence.” Riggs glanced at the clock and folded his arms. “Shit, I missed my guy’s plea in the 277th.” He shrugged. “Win a few, lose a few. What the hell, it’s a court appointment.”

  Waite bounced up from his seat on the bench. “I’ve been thinking this over, Vernon. Tell you what. I’ll take five, you take five. Mr. Jones can have all of his probate fee.”

  Riggs exchanged looks with Teeter. Riggs smiled. “Fuck you, Dicky,” he said.

  Waite studied the floor. “I should have been a probate guy, you know?”

  15

  Sharon didn’t think that the salad at Joe Willie’s Restaurant, in the tunnel underneath Bank One Center, was as fresh as in the past. The lettuce was the proper shade of green, the tomato wedges firm, the croutons crunchy, but there was something about the salad’s overall appearance. She poured ranch dressing in a circular pattern, mixed the dressing in with her fork, took a bite of romaine lettuce, tomato, and bell pepper, and chewed thoughtfully. “Tastes a little wilted,” she said.

  Kathleen lifted her forkful of green-speckled pasta. “That’s why I always get the fettuccine. One day the salad’s good, the next day I wouldn’t eat it on a bet.” She poked the noodles into her mouth and had a sip of iced tea.

  Sharon thought that if she had Kathleen’s metabolism, she’d be chowing down on the pasta with carbonara sauce as well. Kathleen could consume a gallon of ice cream every frigging day and still look like a gymnast, for God’s sake. Sharon’s bathroom scales had told her last night that she’d gained four pounds, and she’d been up this morning before dawn to go an agonizing mile and a half before taking Melanie and Trish to school. Once in New York she’d starved herself practically to death for two weeks before auditioning as Blanche Dubois in Streetcar, then had lost the part because she’d been a head taller than the guy playing Kowalski. “Maybe next time I’ll have the fettuccine,” Sharon said.

  “Next time we should try the West End,” Fraterno said. “There’s a new Good Eats Restaurant.”

  Sharon made a face. “It’s too crowded. I’d like a little privacy when I’m talking business.”

  Fraterno’s expression clouded. It was the first time the two had seen each other outside the courtroom since Sharon had quit the DA, and she suspected that being an adversary made Kathleen somewhat uncomfortable. “How’s your dog?” Fraterno said.

  Sharon’s lips parted. “Oh,” she said. “Word gets around.”

  Fraterno spun more fettuccine onto her fork. “Cops talk, you know that.”

  “Commander’s okay. The poison was strychnine. I’m keeping him in day and night for a while. I want to talk about Midge Rathermore.”

  “There’s no one meaner than someone who wants to hurt an animal,” Fraterno said.

  “Kathleen,” Sharon said. “I’ve got to know about discovery.”

  “You know I can’t make any commitments without talking things over with Milt.” Fraterno’s hair was jet black and flowed halfway to her waist in back. In court she tied the hair up. Today she wore a dress that was half black and half yellow, with the colors divided vertically, and pale yellow medium heels. Sharon thought that Kathleen’s trial attire was always perfect; her tastes outside the courtroom, though, left a bit to be desired. When they’d both been prosecutors and had done some running around together, Sharon had taken Kathleen shopping and had made some subtle suggestions. The result had been that Kathleen’s stunning figure, displayed properly, had given men whiplash when the two women did the town together. Left to her own devices, Sharon thought, Kathleen has reverted to form in her dress. The yellow-and-black outfit wasn’t flattering at all. “Milt’s calling the shots,” Fraterno said.

  “I work for Russell Black, too. That doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s going on in the case.”

  Fraterno stiffened noticeably. “I’m just one of the grunts.”

  Which Sharon knew to be an out-and-out lie. Milt Breyer’s style was to glad-hand the press, make appearances anytime the television folks were around, and depend on his assistant to try the case and keep Milt advised of what was going on. Sharon’s tone took on a slight edge. “And I’m just trying to defend this child,” she said.

  “She’s a murderess.” Fraterno’s face turned to prosecutorial stone.

  “Now you sound like Milt Breyer,” Sharon said.

  “What’s wrong with that? We should have more people who approach their work the same way.”

  Sharon couldn’t believe her ears. It hadn’t been a month earlier that Kathleen had kept Sharon in stitches with her Milton Breyer impression, complete with goosestep walk and phony educated manner of speech. Sharon searched Fraterno’s face. Kathleen was as serious as malaria. What could have changed? Oh, Sharon thought. You’re screwing him, Kathleen. Aren’t you? The thought of Kathleen in bed with Milt—or anyone in bed with Milt, for that matter—made Sharon’s stomach churn. But there was no other answer, and it would account for the Halloween costume of a dress, which a clod like Milton Breyer would think the living end. Sharon lowered her lashes and concentrated on her plate.

  “About the discovery,” Sharon finally said.

  “Yes?” Icy, reserved.

  “It’s been two weeks since the arraignment, Kathleen. The trial is set for six weeks from now, and we’re smart enough to know that with all the media coverage there aren’t likely to be any continuances.”

  “A motion for continuance,” Fraterno said, “would be up to Judge Griffin. The state doesn’t plan to ask for one, I’ll tell you that much.”

  Sandy Griffin had been the luck of the draw, and Sharon and Black had celebrated when the Rathermore case had landed in her courtroom. Though a former prosecutor herself, Griffin was under forty, a Texas Tech law school grad, and one of the only Dallas County judges with the imagination to listen to Sharon’s argument comparing abused children with battered wives. Like all Texas jurists, however, Griffin was elected. As a politician, she’d sooner break a leg than cause the press or movie people a moment’s inconvenience.

  “So we’re in agreement that we’re looking to go to trial July 6 or thereabouts,” Sharon said. “That’s not much time. Ten days ago I sent a letter over to your office asking to see the evidence against our client, and I haven’t heard a word from it.”

  “Our mail room’s been in a turmoil,” Fraterno said, blank-faced.

  Sharon blinked. Kathleen Fraterno had gone from friend to foe with one wave of Milton Breyer’s magic wand. Or magic penis, whatever, though Sharon would have been shocked if there was anything supernatural hidden in Milton Breyer’s underwear. Sharon said, “Okay, Kathleen, up front. Is it going to take a formal hearing for us to get discovery?”

  Fraterno pursed her lips. “Well, it might.”

  “So finally we’re being honest,” Sharon said, wondering how honest it had been for the state to pigeonhole a letter as important as a request for discovery. “If you don’t want to cooperate, Kathleen, I suppose we’ll have to go for a full-blown examining trial.”

  Fraterno’s reaction was a defiant half smirk. Examining trials were a pain in the ass, a procedure whereby the defense could force the prosecution to lay its case out, witnesses and all. Normally, examining trials took place prior to indictment, with the end result being a judge’s recommendation as to whether or not the case could proceed to the grand jury. Midge hadn’t been entitled to an examining trial as a minor, however, and Sharon had already confirmed that she could now ask for one, her conviction bolstered by a short chat with Judge Griffin. Fraterno wouldn’t know about the talk wi
th the judge, of course, and her smirk was based on her belief that the state could defeat a motion for an examining trial. “You’ll have to do what you have to do,” Fraterno said.

  Sharon tightly gripped her fork and, mashing down, murdered a crouton in half. “I suppose we will. Making us go through all this is a little silly, Kathleen.”

  Fraterno moved her half-eaten plate of fettuccine to one side and placed her tea directly in front of her. “I can’t control problems in the mail room.”

  “An intentional problem. We’re entitled to your evidence.”

  Fraterno used a thumbnail to draw a line in the frost on her glass. “No one said that you weren’t.”

  “One reason I was glad to see you on the case was that we wouldn’t expect to go through the same bullshit with you as we would with Milt. I guess I was wrong.”

  “I suppose you were.”

  Sharon had felt a wave of pity when she’d realized that Kathleen had something going with Breyer, of all people, but anger now blotted out any other emotion which Sharon might have room for. “So we’re forced into an examining trial. God, Kathleen, I thought you had more class than this. What the hell has changed?”

  “I don’t see that anything has changed except for the uniform you’re wearing,” Fraterno said.

  If she had any inkling of how close she was to wearing Sharon’s wilted salad like an Easter bonnet, she might bolt from the restaurant. Sharon moved her salad bowl out of temptation’s reach. “I’m a lawyer, you’re a lawyer, and the law hasn’t changed. One thing we always agreed on, it’s pointless to give the other side a hard time just for the sake of giving one.”

  “It’s also rather pointless,” Fraterno said, “to put a black mark on a man’s reputation just for the sake of doing it.” Her hand was wrapped around her glass, and for just an instant Sharon expected claws to sprout catlike from the prosecutor’s fingertips.