Lassiter

by Paul Levine

  I have long relied on Althea for advice, insight, and breakfast. She provides another valuable service, too. She eavesdrops on prosecutors and jurors as they have lunch, then spills the frijoles to me. Folks say the darnedest things in front of her.

  “Nothing so invisible as a black woman in an apron,” Althea told me once, after she revealed the state’s strategy in a money-laundering case.

  After meeting with Angel Roxx on Saturday morning, I had driven to Lighthouse Point, hoping to drop in, unannounced, on Melody Sanders. I was unannounced all right. The condo was empty. She’d moved and left no forwarding address with the management office.

  I told Pepito Dominguez to tail Ziegler so he could lead us to wherever Melody was now hanging her negligee. This morning, he was supposed to meet me with a progress report.

  As I walked up to the truck, I saw two men leaving. One was Nestor Tejada, no mistaking the shaved head with the crown tattoo on the back of his skull. He wore a gray suit that bunched up at his bricklayer’s shoulders. The other man was older, an Anglo with gray hair in a tailored, pinstriped suit. He carried a soft leather briefcase the color of butter. My insightful powers of reasoning told me the guy was a lawyer.

  “Hey, Jakey!” Althea greeted me. “Coffee or pineapple nog.”

  “Coffee, thanks. Say, do you know those two guys who just left here?”

  “Gangbanger and a fancy mouthpiece,” Althea said.

  “I never saw the lawyer before. You?”

  She shook her head. “Polished fingernails. And did you see his eyeglasses?”

  I shook my head. “Too far away.”

  “Expensive. Gold frames with a turquoise inlay.”

  Althea would make an excellent crime-scene witness.

  If neither one of us recognized the lawyer, he was either an out-of-towner or a downtowner. I didn’t care so much who he was as why he was here.

  Nestor Tejada had about ten minutes of noncontroversial testimony to deliver. No reason he should need a lawyer in the gallery.

  “What were the guys talking about?” I asked.

  “My Cuban coffee. Hispanic guy said it tasted like motor oil.”

  “He’s an asshole. Anything else?”

  “They were talking real low. Either that, or my hearing’s going straight to Hades.”

  Just then, Pepito walked up in that easygoing gait that said he had a lot of time to get wherever he was going. He ordered a coco frio. Althea lopped off the top of a coconut with a machete, stuck a straw in the hole and handed it to him.

  “Did you find Melody Sanders?” I asked.

  Instead of answering, Pepito handed me a wad of crumpled American Express receipts.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “My expenses.”

  I looked at the first one. Il Gabbiano, a ritzy restaurant downtown. “Two hundred thirty-six dollars! What the hell.”

  “You told me to follow Charlie Ziegler. He had dinner.”

  “If he goes into a rest room, that doesn’t mean you have to take a piss.” I glanced at the restaurant receipt. “You ate veal stuffed with foie gras? Wait a second. There are two entrées here.”

  “I had the filet mignon. My girlfriend, Raquel, had the veal.”

  I felt the first hints of indigestion and I hadn’t even eaten Althea’s fried plantains simmered in wine.

  “Don’t worry. You’re getting your money’s worth, boss,” Pepito said.

  “So you found Melody?”

  The kid pulled a little notebook out of his cargo shorts and flipped a few pages. “Ziegler had the mista salad and veal piccata.”

  “Why didn’t you give me his check? It would have been cheaper.”

  “And Alex Castiel ordered a bottle of red wine. Châteauneuf-du-Pape.”

  Castiel. That stopped me, but just for a second. Nothing wrong with the State Attorney dining with his chief witness. Had there been, they wouldn’t have met in public.

  “What were they talking about?” I asked.

  “How should I know?”

  “You could read the wine label, but you couldn’t get close enough to listen?”

  “The State Attorney toasted him with the wine. Then, at the end, they shook hands. One of those four-handed deals, you know, hands on top of each other’s.”

  “Then what? Please tell me you followed Ziegler to Melody’s.”

  “First, Ziegler got his car from the valet. While he’s waiting, he’s talking on the cell phone, and I’m standing right behind him.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s talking real sweet, ‘honey’ this and ‘honey’ that.”

  “Jeez, Pepito, cut to it.”

  “He says, ‘Honey, I’ll be there in ten minutes.’ So I figure, she lives close.”

  “Good figuring. Keep going.”

  “Then his Ferrari came up. He got into the car and I had to run to get mine from a meter on Biscayne Boulevard.”

  “So you followed him to Melody’s place?”

  “I tried. I was four cars behind him when we got to the Brickell Avenue drawbridge. He went across as the yellow light was flashing. The arm came down right in front of me. So I got hung up and lost him there.”

  “Shit.”

  “I’m sorry, jefe.”

  “It’s okay, Pepito. You did great. Sometimes I’m too hard on you.”

  I checked my watch. Five minutes to get to court. So much happening. Tejada had a lawyer for reasons unknown. Ziegler and Castiel were best buds. Somewhere out there, presumably ten minutes from downtown, sat Melody Sanders, keeper of Ziegler’s secrets. Then there was Amy Larkin, my tight-lipped client. Where was she the night of the murder? Who was she with? What’s going on between Ziegler and her?

  Some days, I feel in control of my life and my surroundings. But today I felt I was the butt of some cosmic joke in the legal universe. If a meteorite sped across the vastness of space and entered our atmosphere, I had no doubt it would make a beeline straight for my head.

  58 The Rat

  The man with polished fingernails and the turquoise glasses sat in the back row of the gallery. I gave him a little lawyer nod, but he didn’t acknowledge me. I kept my eyes on Tejada during his direct exam and caught him flashing looks to the guy, as if seeking approval.

  When Castiel informed me that the witness was mine, I patted Amy Larkin on the shoulder, stood up, smiled pleasantly at the jury, and said, “Good morning, Mr. Tejada.”

  “Yeah. Morning.”

  He looked sullen. Fine with me. Jurors like their witnesses to be neighborly and good-humored, not cheerless and sour.

  Tejada had walked through Castiel’s direct exam, the State Attorney his usual brisk and efficient self. Now I had a clear-cut task. I wanted to point a finger at this jailbird, and while I was at it, smear Ziegler, too.

  “Let me get a few things straight, Mr. Tejada. When you heard the gunshots, you raced around the house to the pool deck and straight to the solarium, correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’d you know to run there?”

  “That’s where the shots seemed to come from.”

  “Seemed to? Do you have experience with gunshots?”

  He gave a little smirk. “Some.”

  “You’re not on the Olympic biathlon team by any chance, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “And you’re not a veteran of Iraq or Afghanistan, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Ever serve in uniform? Other than in prison?”

  “Objection!” Castiel fired it off so quickly, he didn’t even have time to stand.

  “Mr. Lassiter, you will stow the sarcasm in your rucksack,” Judge Melvia Duckworth said, employing a term she must have used in court-martials back in JAG.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” I said, in the time-honored tradition of accepting criticism with dignity and respect.

  On direct exam, Castiel smartly brought out that Tejada had several criminal convictions. Under the rules of evidence, I
then couldn’t ask anything about his crimes.

  “Mr. Tejada. When you reached the pool deck, the first thing you saw was a broken window in the solarium. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah. Like I already said to the prosecutor.”

  “And when you looked inside, you saw Charles Ziegler bent over the body of Max Perlow?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you see my client anywhere?” I nodded toward Amy, sitting placidly at the defense table, a nonhomicidal look on her angelic face.

  “No.”

  “If she shot Mr. Perlow, how do you suppose she got away?”

  “Objection!” Castiel bounced to his feet like a fighter coming off the corner stool. “Calls for a conclusion.”

  “Sustained,” Judge Duckworth said.

  “Let me ask it this way. Mr. Ziegler’s house sits right on the water, correct?”

  “Yeah. The pool deck runs to the seawall.”

  “Did you see anyone fleeing by boat?”

  “No.”

  “When you were running from the north side of the house, did you see anyone running toward the south?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you hear any car engines starting up or driving off?”

  “No.”

  “So the only person you saw was Charles Ziegler, who’s bent over the victim?”

  “Yeah. Said it a couple times now.”

  “Was Mr. Ziegler trying to stop the bleeding?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Was he performing resuscitation?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “So, what was Ziegler doing? Just watching Max Perlow die?”

  “Objection, Your Honor.” Castiel again. “Argumentative.”

  “Overruled. You may answer, Mr. Tejada.”

  “Ziegler was kind of paralyzed. In shock, like.”

  “Maybe he’d never seen anyone shot before?”

  “I’m sure he hadn’t.”

  “But you have, correct? You’ve seen men shot.”

  At the prosecution table, Castiel stirred but didn’t stand up. He could easily object. But Castiel knew which hills to defend, and which ones to give up without losing any troops.

  “I’ve seen a couple dudes shot, yeah.”

  Tejada glanced toward the man in the last row.

  “Let’s step back for a minute. Just why was Mr. Perlow visiting Charles Ziegler that night?” I asked.

  “To collect money.”

  I liked the answer. “Collect money” had a seedy sound.

  “You had a business deal of your own with Mr. Perlow, didn’t you?” I already knew this from taking Tejada’s depo.

  “Slot-machine contract. We serviced Indian reservations.”

  “What were the terms between you and Mr. Perlow?”

  “I had a third of the business. When Mr. P died, I got the rest.”

  Bingo.

  “So you stood to gain financially on Mr. Perlow’s death?”

  “I see where you’re going, but I was happy working for Mr. P.”

  “Really? Driving his car was better than owning his business?”

  “I wasn’t in a hurry. The old dude was like family.”

  “Weren’t you getting tired of waiting for the old dude to die?”

  “Nope. I enjoyed his company.”

  I was out to collect a string of “no”s. Get enough negatives, they sometimes turn into a positive.

  “So that wasn’t you on the pool deck with a gun …”

  “No way, man!”

  “… purposely making a noise to lure Perlow into the solarium …”

  “Hell, no!”

  “… where you could shoot him through the glass?”

  “Screw you, Lassiter! That’s crap.”

  His face had heated up with a look that was positively murderous.

  “The witness will keep his voice down,” the judge instructed.

  “So now, Mr. Tejada, you’re the proud owner of one hundred percent of the slot-machine business, correct?”

  He answered softly. “As soon as the legal papers are done, yeah.”

  I decided to throw a Hail Mary, see who would catch it. “Is that why your lawyer is here today?”

  Tejada’s eyes flicked again to the man in the last row of the gallery. “That’s not why he’s here.”

  Okay. I was half right. At least, the guy was his lawyer.

  I took another chance. “Are you currently charged with a crime, Mr. Tejada?”

  “Downtown. The feds indicted me for money laundering.”

  “Is the charge related to your slot-machine business?”

  “That’s what they say. My lawyer’s gotta talk to the U.S. Attorney about my plea deal.”

  His plea deal. Oh, shit.

  If Tejada had been indicted for the slots business, Perlow was likely to be charged, too. The old mobster was the bigger fish, so Tejada had some leverage in a plea deal in which he cooperated with the feds. Meaning … Tejada didn’t want Perlow dead. Perlow was Tejada’s ticket out of jail.

  I had fallen into a gator hole, and I needed to get the hell out before I got my leg chewed off. “Your witness,” I told Castiel.

  The State Attorney gave me a snarky smile and said, “Mr. Tejada, let’s tidy up a bit.”

  Translation: The defense lawyer took a dump on the floor. Let’s rub his face in it.

  “Did you become a cooperating witness after your indictment?”

  Tejada looked down as he answered, “Yeah, I did.”

  “What were the terms of your cooperation?”

  “If I testified against Mr. P, I’d get a reduced sentence. Maybe no prison time.”

  “So did you have a motive to see Max Perlow dead?”

  “Todo lo contrario. The opposite, man. With him dead, I got no deal with the feds.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Tejada.” Castiel slid back into his chair.

  Two tons of sand weighted me down, but I still managed to get to my feet. There was no reason to flail away any longer, but I always prefer going to the lunch break with my words in the air, rather than the prosecutor’s. “Your Honor, just a couple questions.”

  “Quickly, Counselor.”

  “Are you what’s called a rat, Mr. Tejada? A snitch?”

  “That and a lot worse names.”

  “Max Perlow was good to you, wasn’t he?”

  “He was the best.”

  “And you turned on him?”

  “He wouldn’t look at it that way,” Tejada said. “Mr. P used to tell a story. Two men are walking through the woods and come across a big bear. The bear starts chasing them, and one guy says, ‘You think we can outrun this bear?’ The other guy says, ‘I only have to outrun you.’ It’s what Mr. P taught me. When the shooting starts, put someone between yourself and the shooter. Save yourself first. Worry about others later. I was just doing what the old man taught me.”

  59 The Dark Side

  Amy was back in her holding cell, probably gagging on her lunch. Two slices of bologna on white bread with a packet of mustard, a half pint of milk, and a small bag of potato chips. Yeah, I hate how we pamper our prisoners.

  Judge Duckworth was off to the Bankers Club, sliced tenderloin with a tangy horseradish sauce, a Caesar salad, and a martini, straight up. The jurors were downstairs in the cafeteria, escorted by the bailiff.

  The courtroom abandoned, I sat alone at the defense table, surveying the wreckage of my case. Basically, I had a client who wouldn’t level with me, and she had an incompetent lawyer.

  I was riffling through my file folders, as if I could find a scrap that would win the case. There was nothing in the paperwork. There seldom is. I opened Kip’s research files, pulled out the forty-year-old photo of Max Perlow and Meyer Lansky walking into the very courtroom where I now sat brooding. Then another photo, an aged Lansky, in dark slacks and light sweater, walking a little dog on a leash.

  “Bruzzer!”

  The voice from over my shoulder st
artled me. I turned and saw Castiel.

  “Lansky’s dog was named ‘Bruzzer,’ ” he said. “Spelled with two ‘z’s.”

  “I know. Max Perlow told me that. Said he used to go with Lansky on his dog walks.”

  Castiel eased into my client’s chair, propped his feet on the defense table, and leaned back, both hands behind his head. “Not like you to skip lunch, Jake.”

  “Not like me to step on one of your land mines, either.”

  “You’re overly aggressive. Sometimes it works. And sometimes …”

  His shit-eating grin made me want to slug him. “Tell me the truth, Alex. Did you tell Tejada to stop by Althea’s truck with his lawyer this morning?”

  “I might have mentioned something about Althea’s high-octane Cuban coffee.”

  “Shit. You suckered me.”

  “I’ve been watching Althea feed you plantains and state secrets for a dozen years.” He gave me his politician’s laugh. “I know you too well, amigo.”

  Funny thing was, I didn’t know Castiel at all. Until Amy Larkin came to town, I hadn’t known just how closely my pal had been tied to shady characters like his Uncle Max and the Prince of Porn.

  “Is Tejada really gonna do time?” I asked.

  “Doubt it. He’s a professional snitch. He’s got others to rat out.”

  Other bears to outrun, I thought. “Dammit, Alex, you played me.”

  “Coming and going.” He whipped a Cuban Torpedo out of his suit pocket and grabbed his gold lighter, that fancy gift from General Batista to Bernard Castiel. “Just wanted you to know I’m a better trial lawyer than you. Always have been.”

  “Should I drop my shorts? ’Cause I didn’t know we were having a dick-measuring contest.”

  “No need. I’ve got a slam-dunk case, old buddy.”

  Oh. I hadn’t seen this coming.

  When a prosecutor turns boastful, he’s worried about something. The whole Tejada shtick was a misdirect, like a play-action fake on a passing play.

  “So what are you offering, old buddy?” I asked.

  “Your client gets convicted, she’s looking at life. But I’ve been doing some soul searching …”