by Paul Levine
“Ouch!” I yelled, twisting away.
Ziegler vaulted from behind his desk, screaming, “I’ll shoot you, I’ll shoot you!”
Amy was still riding my back, the shell to my tortoise. “I’ve got it!” she shouted.
Her hand came out with the battery pack that had been taped to the small of my back. The recorder was still on my thigh. I shook from side to side, like a wet dog, and she flew off me.
“I’ll shoot!” Ziegler repeated, in case I’d forgotten.
Blood flowed into my eyes from my forehead, and I could barely see. I wheeled toward Krista and saw the blur of movement. The People’s Porn statuette, coming at my head. Krista with a death grip on the naked woman’s torso. I raised an arm and caught the blow, the statuette breaking in two at the woman’s hips. An electric jolt, a stinger, shot through my shoulder.
Krista tried to slash me with the jagged bottom half of the statuette. I slid to one side, dodging her. She came at me again, but I grabbed the collar of her robe and tossed her to the floor. “Shoot him!” she yelled.
Amy came at me, arms flailing. I caught her wrist in one paw and twisted until she cried, “Ow,” then spun her into the credenza.
Ziegler moved between the door and me, holding the gun in two hands.
“I’m out of here, Ziegler.”
“Give it up and I’ll let you go.”
“You’ll let me go now.”
I took two steps toward him and he raised the gun to chest level. “Don’t make me.”
“Kill him!” Krista screamed, from the floor.
“I’ll do it. I swear I will!” Ziegler’s arms trembled.
“You’re a better man than that, Charlie. That’s the damn irony. Compared to these two, you’re the Humanitarian of the Year.”
I wrenched the gun from his hand. A Sig Sauer .380.
Amy’s gun? The murder weapon? I’d bet on it.
71 The Old Fumblerooski
The next morning, my forehead was stitched, my knee wrapped, and my ear bandaged. Other than a crushing headache, I felt damn good.
As I swung the old Eldo into the Justice Building lot, I listened to Johnny Cash sing about that old “ring of fire.”
“And it burns, burns, burns …”
The acting State Attorney was a silver-haired woman in her fifties named Cheryl Halpern. A lifer in the U.S. Attorney’s Office, she ran the Public Corruption Unit and had earned a reputation as a smart, tough prosecutor. Today, having been convinced by the Governor to give up her federal paycheck, she sat in Alex Castiel’s old high-back leather chair.
She hadn’t had time to either unpack her boxes or move Castiel’s possessions out. The photograph of Bernard Castiel, Meyer Lansky, and Rosa Castiel looked at us from the credenza.
Seated next to me were Castiel and his lawyer, a silver-haired Brooks Brothers mouthpiece from Palm Beach. His wingtips were highly polished, and he eyed me with outright hostility. He didn’t offer his name and I didn’t take it.
I had asked for the meeting, so State Attorney Halpern told me to say my piece. I spent ten minutes telling them everything I knew. I handed over the Sig Sauer, which I’d put in a kitchen plastic bag and labeled, as if I were a crime-scene tech. Then I asked if they’d like to hear the audiotape.
“You wore a wire?” Cheryl Halpern said. “Again?”
I shrugged. I’ve lived in South Florida practically my entire life, yet was known for only two things. I’d once toted a football to the wrong end zone, and I’d once blown the whistle on my own client. Okay, make that twice.
As I played the tape, Mr. Palm Beach stopped giving me the evil eye and began bobbing his head, as if keeping time to a pleasant tune. When I clicked off the recorder, Ms. Halpern said, “Illuminating.” She also had a reputation for brevity.
“Thank you, Jake,” Castiel said. “Thank you.”
“Didn’t do it for you,” I said, not looking at him.
“It seems clear that there’s no case to take to the Grand Jury concerning Mr. Castiel,” Mr. Palm Beach said. “I’d suggest the state build its case against Krista Larkin.”
“She’s already lawyered up,” the new State Attorney said. “Kevin Moore called me this morning.”
“Did he sniff around about a plea?” I said.
“Hardly. He says you’re wrong about the phone calls and you’ve got the wrong shooter.”
“Yeah?”
“Moore says Krista never left her apartment that night. She had some wine, turned off the phone, and went to bed early, which is why Ziegler’s first call went to voicemail. Then he called her cell phone, which the lawyer claims Amy answered while driving Krista’s car.”
Uh-oh. I saw where this was going.
“I don’t get it,” Mr. Palm Beach said. He might charge six hundred bucks an hour but still was a step too slow.
“The old switcheroo, the fumblerooski,” I interjected.
“How’s that?”
“They’re saying that Amy was driving back from Ziegler’s house, where she’d just shot Perlow. Amy. Not Krista. And because the case has already been dismissed with prejudice against Amy …”
“Double jeopardy!” Mr. Palm Beach brayed, as if he had known it all along. “Double jeopardy bars a second prosecution against Amy.”
“Not that we would charge her,” Halpern said, “if Krista is the shooter, and this is just a ruse.”
“The perfect defense,” Mr. Palm Beach said, a bit wistfully. “Blame the murder on a person who can’t be tried.”
Castiel leaned forward in his chair and wagged a finger at his replacement. “You can’t let them get away with it. If I were still State Attorney—”
“You’re not, Mr. Castiel,” Halpern said, “and with good reason.”
Mr. Palm Beach put a gentle hand on Castiel’s arm and turned to the new State Attorney. “No need to be testy with my client, Ms. Halpern.”
She ignored him and looked at me. “Mr. Lassiter, thank you for your efforts, but unless you have a suggestion, I think we may be at the end of the road here.”
“There’s one thing you might want to consider,” I said. “Charlie Ziegler testified that Alex was the shooter and now admits on tape he was lying. You’ve got him dead to rights on perjury.”
“I see where you’re going with this,” Halpern said. “Charge Ziegler with a felony and offer him a deal. But will he turn on his mistress?”
“He’s the weak link,” Castiel said. “I’ll bet he goes for it.”
“I’d bet against it,” I said. “He loves Krista, really loves her.”
The air went out of the room with that assessment.
“So, what, then?” Halpern asked. “We put Ziegler away for a few years and the killer goes free?”
“There’s still a way you might convict Krista Larkin.”
“How?”
“Krista loves Ziegler, too. Give her the choice which one goes to prison. Indict her for Perlow’s murder, plead it down to manslaughter. Give her a chance to spend a few years locked up in return for not charging Ziegler with perjury.”
“Horse trading,” Halpern said. “It’s not perfect.”
“Justice seldom is,” I replied, as if she didn’t know that.
“And if they both hang tough?”
“Ziegler goes away for a bit, and Krista pines for him. Either way, I’m not gonna lose any sleep over it. Like I told Ziegler, Perlow getting aced is rough justice. The guy ordered Krista’s execution.”
“Jesus, Jake!” Castiel exploded. “We adhere to the rule of law. We don’t countenance vigilantes.”
“The rule of law?” Halpern said. “How dare you even use the phrase!”
Castiel looked away. Defiant, not ashamed.
“I agree with Mr. Lassiter,” Halpern continued. “I can think of worse things than Perlow’s murderer not being convicted. You going free, Mr. Castiel, comes to mind.”
“I have a thought on that subject, too,” I said. “Alex suborned perjury an
d obstructed justice by browbeating Ziegler into fingering Amy as the shooter.”
“Jake, what the fuck!” Castiel was glaring at me.
“Ms. Halpern, I think you can put him away for a while. Again, it’s not perfect but it’s better than nothing.”
“You bastard,” Castiel said.
“Mr. Lassiter, my esteem for you keeps rising,” Halpern said.
“Thank you.”
“ ‘Rough justice,’ you called it.” She sighed. “I’ve been doing this twenty-five years, and now I wonder if that’s all we can ever expect.”
“We can always aim higher, but I never like to get my hopes up.”
She gave me a rueful smile. “That reminds me of what the Attorney General told me when I was sworn in.”
I seldom speak to an Attorney General, so I listened, figuring I might learn something.
“He said, ‘Cheryl, put your ideals in the desk drawer with the rubber bands and paper clips. Just work hard to do the right thing and hope for the best.’ ”
That sounded about right.
I said my good-byes and headed out, thinking about the law and justice, and the tenuous relationship between the two. I found my old Eldo in the steaming parking lot, a snowy white egret perched on the hood like a feathery ornament.
I keyed the ignition and listened to the giant V-8 sputter to life. The skinny-legged bird turned its pointy beak toward me but didn’t move.
“What do you want from me?” I asked.
No answer. Its beady yellow eyes seemed accusatory.
“Hey. I do the best I can.”
The egret squawked twice, crapped on my hood, spread its wings, and took off.
“Okay, okay! I’ll try harder.”
I watched the bird dip, then soar, heading toward the river and disappearing into the glare of the morning sun.
For the kids …
“For the kids” is the rallying cry of Penn State University’s annual dance marathon on behalf of the Four Diamonds Fund, which supports cancer treatment and research at Hershey Children’s Hospital.
Acknowledgments
I gratefully acknowledge the assistance of Randy Anderson, Angel Castillo, Thomas Douglas Engel, John Schulian, John Macaray, Paul Basile, Ed Shohat, Maria Shohat, Judge Stanford Blake, James O. Born, and Carmen Finestra.
As always, I am indebted to my agent Albert Zuckerman at Writers House and my battalion at Bantam/Random House: Randall Klein, Kate Miciak, Kim Hovey, Lisa Barnes, and Sharon Propson.
ALSO BY PAUL LEVINE
Illegal
Trial & Error
Kill All the Lawyers
The Deep Blue Alibi
Solomon vs. Lord
9 Scorpions
Flesh & Bones
Fool Me Twice
Slashback
Mortal Sin
False Dawn
Night Vision
To Speak for the Dead
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PAUL LEVINE is a former trial lawyer and an award-winning author of legal thrillers, including Illegal, Solomon vs. Lord (nominated for the Macavity Award and the James Thurber Prize), The Deep Blue Alibi (nominated for an Edgar Award), and Kill All the Lawyers (a finalist for the International Thriller Writers Award). He won the John D. MacDonald Award for his critically acclaimed Jake Lassiter novels, which are now available as ebooks. He’s also written more than twenty episodes for the CBS military drama JAG. Paul Levine lives in Los Angeles, where he is working on his next Jake Lassiter thriller.
