Lassiter

by Paul Levine

  “I used to be in the papers a bit.”

  That’s what Max Perlow told me the day I met him in Charlie Ziegler’s office. So I’d asked my trusty law clerk—Kip by name—to get me everything he could on Perlow. I was relying on the classic SODDI defense.

  Some Other Dude Did It.

  An unknown rival who waited for his chance to take out Max Perlow. One of a veritable army of assassins who had it in for the old gangster. As part of my due diligence, I figured it wouldn’t be a bad idea to see if there might be a shred of truth to my theory. At the same time, I wondered if that enemy might be sitting next to me. Did Amy find something I’d missed? Evidence that Perlow killed Krista, as Aldrin suggested. In which case, Amy wasn’t such a bad pistol shot, after all.

  Kip is an industrious kid. He found lots of references to Perlow in the Miami Herald and The Miami News plus some in the International Herald Tribune and The Havana Post, an English language paper in pre-Castro Cuba. Many articles that mentioned Perlow also named his business associate Meyer Lansky. Grand Jury investigations of illegal gambling in Broward County. The slaying of Albert Anastasia in New York. The Kefauver Committee hearings on organized crime. Castro’s takeover of Lansky’s Riviera Hotel. Fun and games from days gone by.

  When Lansky sought Israeli citizenship in the 1970s, one of the affidavits attesting to his sterling character was signed by Max Perlow, described as a “consultant in the hotel and entertainment industry.”

  There was virtually nothing in the clippings that bolstered my theory of a man with enemies. At least not now. Except for a few real estate notices—buying and selling condos and vacant lots—Perlow hadn’t been mentioned in the papers in the last twenty years. Most of his known associates were long dead.

  One clipping, though, fell into the category of irony or coincidence, or whatever the hell it is when the world spins thousands of times and returns to the same exact place.

  “Alex, take a look at this,” I said, holding the Herald clipping.

  Castiel glanced toward the gallery, where eighty potential jurors waited, most willing to commit perjury to avoid spending three weeks locked in a room with total strangers, some of whom fail to bathe regularly.

  “What is it?” Castiel wore his expression of prosecutorial solemnity. He didn’t want to walk to my table. That would send the impression to jurors that we were equals. And he wouldn’t ever want me to saunter over to his table and drape my arm around his shoulder. That would convey the notion that this was just a game, that the lawyers would go through their paces, feigning anger at each other, then spend the evenings drinking and carousing. In truth, there’s less of that these days, which I think is a pity.

  “Take a look. It won’t bite.” I held the clipping at arm’s length so he wouldn’t be infected by defense lawyer cooties.

  It was a news story from April 1970. Lansky, sixty-eight years old at the time, had been charged with illegal possession of barbiturates—ulcer medication—for which he had no prescription. If there’s a drug charge that’s the equivalent of jaywalking, this would be it. But what was really interesting was the photo. It was taken in the corridor outside this very courtroom. There was Lansky with his pal, Perlow, along for moral support.

  Spine straight, Castiel extended his arm and grabbed the clipping as if it might be radioactive. A second later, he smiled and his body relaxed. “Jesus, forty years ago, Jake.” He read the headline aloud: “ ‘Judge Dismisses Charge, Slams Prosecution.’ ”

  “I’m going for the same result in this case,” I said.

  Castiel moved closer, leaning over me, letting go of his Inspector Javert persona. “I remember that trial,” he whispered.

  “How? You were, what, eight years old?”

  “Just turned nine. Uncle Max brought me to court.” He tapped an index finger on the photo. “Wanted me to meet Meyer Lansky.”

  I understood Perlow coming to support his pal. But yanking precocious little Alex out of classes at Tuttle-Biscayne? What sense did that make?

  “Are you gonna make me beg or just tell me?” I said. “What was Lansky like?”

  “A tiny man. Very polite, very soft-spoken. He wore a sport coat. Soft fabric. Black and white; herringbone, maybe.”

  “You have a helluva memory.”

  Castiel smiled, eyes far away. “Something memorable happened.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It was the week of my birthday. Max had given me a Swiss Army knife, and I showed it to Lansky.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Lansky said he’d give me a hundred bucks if I proved I was a brave little boy.”

  “He asked you to stab the prosecutor?”

  “He told me to carve my name under the judge’s bench.”

  “No way.”

  “The emmis, Jake.”

  “Most kids go to Chuck E. Cheese on their birthdays. You cut deals with the FBI’s Most Wanted.”

  “I waited till the lunch recess, and as soon as the judge was out of the courtroom, I crawled under the bench and carved my name. At least I think I did. It was pretty dark.”

  A great story, I thought, picturing little Alex Castiel, crouched on his haunches, using all his strength to scratch at the wood with his shiny new knife. “Lansky pay off?”

  “A hundred dollar bill. Only time I ever took a bribe.”

  I thought again about Castiel’s theory of the duality of man, the thin line between good and evil. He believed you could step across the line, then step back again. Or maybe just straddle the line, one foot in heaven, one in hell. He had never explained precisely how he put that theory into practice.

  “Helluva story, Alex,” I said.

  “When I crawled back out from under the bench, Lansky asked me, ‘Were you scared, boychik?’ ”

  “And you said …?”

  “ ‘No way, José.’ Lansky got a big laugh at that. Told Max to take me to Wolfie’s for a hot fudge sundae.”

  “Was it the truth, Alex? You weren’t scared?”

  “Petrified! But I wouldn’t show it. I knew Lansky was a tough guy.” Castiel handed back the clipping. “I wanted to be just like him.”

  53 A Pay-or-Die Deal

  “I love you,” Ziegler said.

  Melody Sanders laughed. “Pillow talk, baby. All pillow talk.”

  True enough, they were in Melody’s bed. They had just had sex, and Ziegler was still basking in the glow, feeling as if he were floating on a raft in a warm, calm sea. But that wasn’t the reason his emotions were gushing. He’d had these feelings for a long time. This was the woman who understood him, who accepted him just the way he was.

  Melody’s bed was his sanctuary from an increasingly cruel and heartless world. But today he couldn’t stop thinking about that prick Alex Castiel.

  “There are only two people who could have killed Max. Amy Larkin and you, Charlie. It’s completely up to you who goes down for it.”

  “Mel, I want to take you to Buenos Aires,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Or Rio. I think I meant Rio.”

  Argentina or Brazil? He could never remember which one refused to extradite fugitives to the United States.

  “Or Casablanca.” He was pretty damn sure there was no treaty with Morocco.

  “What are you talking about, Charlie?”

  “I can sell the cable channel. Fox is always in the market for more sleaze. And Rodney Gifford would buy the porn distribution business if the price was right.”

  Melody propped up on an elbow, her face close to his. When she frowned, her nose wiggled like a rabbit’s. She was so all-fire cute Ziegler wanted to kiss her from head to toe and frequently did.

  “A fresh start for both of us.” A youthful bounce to his voice.

  “What about your wife?”

  “She’s not invited.”

  “Slow down, Charlie.” She traced figure-eights on his chest with an index finger. “You’re under a lot of stress.”

  “Damn straight.”<
br />
  “It’s not the time to make major decisions.”

  She was right, Ziegler knew. So damn smart. And supportive. Not just a good lay. His relationship with Melody had always been more than just sex. As the years went by, he relied more on her for advice and counsel. If he had a problem with cable operators or DVD distributors, he’d discuss it with her. She was also the only person in the world Ziegler trusted completely.

  “Alex is threatening me and Tejada’s strong-arming me.” He took her hand in his and kissed her fingertips. “A man can’t live like that. Not for long.”

  “Running away? It’s not like you, Charlie.”

  “I’m talking about a new life. Right after the trial, let’s do it.”

  “Not until you have some breathing room, some time to think. Maybe a couple weeks in the islands, let you unwind. You might see things differently then.”

  Right again, he thought.

  “I have some new toys we can bring along.” Showing her salacious smile.

  “You’re on.” Lately, he’d ceded the dominant role in the bedroom to Melody. As he got older, he took pleasure in surrendering power. Ball and gag, rubber mask, clothespins, he loved it all. Who knew that ass beads could add twenty megatons to his orgasm?

  “Did you want to talk about the trial?” she asked, gently.

  He knew that was her sweet way of saying, “We have to talk about the trial.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m worried, Charlie.”

  “I screwed up that night, but I can make it right.”

  “So you’ve been thinking about what you’re going to say on the stand.”

  “Constantly.”

  “And …?”

  He sighed. “Gonna say I couldn’t see who fired the shot.”

  Worry clouded her face. “Are you going to tell Castiel you’re changing your testimony?”

  “The opposite. I’ll tell him I’m on board.”

  “Are you sure that’s the way to do it?”

  Her concern had dug little creases in her forehead. Ziegler loved that look, a mixture of vulnerability and caring.

  “I’ll let Castiel tell the jury I’m his star witness, then sandbag the fucker.”

  “How do you think he’ll react?”

  “Shit his pants in the courtroom, I’m hoping.”

  “Just be careful, Charlie.”

  “No worries, Mel.”

  Ziegler lifted the sheet and buried his head between her breasts. He didn’t want to talk about Castiel. Even years ago, when the prick came around sniffing after pussy, he always acted superior, like he was slumming. Ziegler blamed Perlow for spoiling Castiel when he was a kid, telling him he was so damn special. What a crock.

  “What are you thinking about, Charlie?”

  “It’s winter in Rio, hon,” Ziegler whispered. “Buenos Aries, too. I love winter.”

  Nestor Tejada, bodyguard of the late Max Perlow, took the Copans Road exit and headed east toward the town of Lighthouse Point. Nearing the harbor, he parked in the scant shade of a stubby palm tree, got out of the car, and walked to the pink condominium building.

  Fucking Ziegler.

  Once Tejada had threatened to reveal what he’d seen—Ziegler finishing off poor old Perlow—the weasel had changed his tune. All of a sudden, the reality show idea, “Gangbangers,” was a high-concept, dead-solid hit. Ziegler had agreed to terms. But ever since, he’d been stringing Tejada along. Refusing to put anything in writing, saying that’s how deals were done in television.

  “My word is my bond, amigo. You’ve got a play-or-pay deal.”

  Bullshit, Ziegler. You’ve got a pay-or-die deal.

  It was time to let Ziegler know that. Saturday morning. A man of habit, Ziegler would be curled up with his honey. Always best to catch a man with his pants down.

  Tejada took the elevator to the fourth floor and headed toward the corner apartment. He hadn’t decided whether to ring the bell or kick in the door. When he got to the apartment, the decision was made for him. The door was open. He walked inside. The smell of fresh paint was in the air.

  No furniture.

  No nobody.

  “You’re so tense, baby,” Melody said.

  His back oiled, Ziegler was facedown on the bed, Melody straddling him. She dug her thumbs into the muscles along the shoulder blades. Pain. Then slid forward, letting her nipples trace circles in the massage oil. Pleasure.

  “Relax, baby,” she said. “Let the tension drain out.”

  “Give me five minutes, I got something that’ll shoot out.”

  He could see the bay through the floor-to-ceiling glass. He’d bought the apartment for Melody after realizing Tejada had followed him to the Lighthouse Point condo. So here they were on the seventeenth floor of a Brickell Key high-rise just south of the Miami Avenue bridge. This part of his life had to be kept away from Tejada and Castiel and anyone else who could do them harm.

  Her hands felt warm, and his eyes fluttered shut. As he drifted off, he thought again of Rio, and the “The Girl from Ipanema” floated through his dreams.

  54 An Army of Assassins

  “Oye, oye, oye. The 11th Judicial Circuit is now in session. Judge Melvia Duckworth presiding.”

  Everyone scrambled up, and Her Honor breezed through a back door, robes flying like an untrimmed sail. Judge Melvia Duckworth was an African-American woman in her fifties who had been an army captain, handling court-martials as a JAG lawyer. I liked her, mainly because she let lawyers try their cases without too much interference, and she hadn’t yet said the magic words: “Mr. Lassiter, you are hereby held in contempt.…”

  The judge wore a white, filagreed rabat at her neck, giving her the appearance of a member of the clergy. She wished everyone good morning and instructed the bailiff to bring in the jurors.

  Next to me, Amy had the pallor common to inmates and barflies but did not seem nervous or agitated. Going on trial for murder apparently agreed with her. She wore a prim little business suit. Charcoal gray. White blouse with a little bow. The outfit shouted “innocent.” I always want my clients well dressed and well groomed. I could have walked Charles Manson if he’d had a haircut and a Band-Aid covering the swastika on his forehead.

  Sometimes I use props. Bibles and rosary beads are my old reliables. I’ll put a wedding band on a male client to create the impression that someone loves him. I’ll take a wedding band off a female client if someone on the jury might want to bone her.

  It was time for opening statements. The lawyers’ first speech is a window into the way two officers of the court can take the same facts and draw opposite conclusions. If Castiel were trying Goldilocks for burglary, he might tell the jury: “The defendant, with callous disregard for the property rights of others, sneaked into a private home, and, like the gluttonous hooligan she is, ate all the porridge, leaving the rightful owners to go hungry.”

  Whereas I might say: “A desperate and hungry little girl, intending no harm, sought refuge and sustenance in an open and inviting house.”

  It had taken four days to pick a jury, a dozen citizens, good and true. Castiel gave them his trial smile and intoned, “First, I want to thank all of you for coming down here and devoting your time and effort to your community.”

  Because if you ignored the jury summons, I’d have you arrested.

  He spent three or four precious minutes waving the flag and telling the jurors how wonderful they were. True blue Americans and all of that.

  “What I’m about to say to you is not evidence,” Castiel continued.

  A lot of lawyers start that way. I don’t know why. It’s like telling the jurors they don’t have to listen. I wondered if Castiel might be a little rusty. These days, he only prosecuted a couple cases a year, attaching himself to high-publicity trials like a lamprey to a shark.

  “The evidence that you will consider,” Castiel was saying, “will come to you from the witness stand and in demonstrative exhibits from the crime scene. What I’m do
ing now, and what Mr. Lassiter will do when I sit down, is give you a preview of each of our cases.”

  Thanks, Alex, but I’m not gonna give them a “preview.” I’m gonna start indoctrinating them with the theme of my case.

  What’s a theme? Lawyers used to say it’s a telegram, the short, punchy summary of your case. No one uses telegrams anymore, so I suppose it’s a twitter, or a tweet, or whatever you call it. To construct your theme, you deconstruct your case. Pull it apart brick by brick until you’re left with the barest structure. The marketing whizzes who write movie taglines know how to do this.

  “Houston, we have a problem.”

  Or … “Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the water.”

  Castiel stood three feet in front of the jury box. Close enough to demand their attention without spraying the front row with spittle. “This case involves an obsessed woman who stalked a man she wrongly believed had harmed her sister, then in an attempt to kill him, shot and murdered another man.”

  “Obsessed.” “Stalked.” “Shot.” The thematic words Castiel would hammer throughout the trial.

  I patted Amy on the arm just to let her know nothing Castiel said concerned me. To let the jury know, too. In reality, the State Attorney had everything he needed for conviction. Eyewitness testimony. Fingerprints. Ballistics.

  What did Amy have? An ex-jock mouthpiece who didn’t necessarily believe her story.

  “You will hear from an eyewitness, Charles Ziegler, a respected businessman and philanthropist.” Castiel was rolling now. “Mr. Ziegler was the intended victim, and he witnessed the shooting. He will tell you under oath that he saw this woman, Amy Larkin, fire the fatal shot.”

  Castiel pointed at Amy, as prosecutors are inclined to do. J’ accuse! Amy didn’t blink and she didn’t turn away. She didn’t look angry and she didn’t look scared. She merely stared back at Castiel, her head cocked a bit, as if listening to a fairly interesting discussion that did not involve her personally.

  “You will be presented with evidence that the defendant stalked Mr. Ziegler. You will hear from a fingerprint expert who will identify conclusive matches, placing the defendant at the scene of the shooting. You will see cigarette butts bearing the defendant’s DNA that were found on a construction site adjacent to the crime scene. And you will hear from a ballistics expert who will testify that …”