Lethal Defense

by Michael Stagg

  I decided it was time to head to the Regency.

  My ostentatious, trying too hard, black leather wristband gave me entrance to the magical world at the top of the Regency where a full-blown party was going on in a series of adjacent suites. The chip hidden in the band got me past an outer circle of security and functionaries to the next circle of beer, liquor, and seafood before depositing me in a suite with blaring music filled with metal rock’s version of the beautiful people—long hair, dark eyeliner, and clothes combinations that seemed more selected for what they revealed than any discernible color pattern.

  You know, the type of party Michigan lawyers go to all the time.

  Jeans, collared shirt, and boots weren’t a Tom Hanks tuxedo at a Christmas party but it didn’t exactly blend in either. I grabbed a water (after getting over my shock that there was water available), drifted to a corner, and watched.

  It didn’t take long to figure out the crowd: crew, friends, family, and a local radio guy who called himself “the Mad Man” and expounded on the size of his syndicated audience to anyone who would listen, which, judging from his volume, he presumed was all of us. I had apparently made it to Dante’s fifth circle of hell, the section of the afterparty reserved for DJs and lawyers.

  “You must be management,” said a voice.

  A woman in her thirties whose hair actually seemed to be real blond stood next to me and I was surprised I hadn’t noticed. “I’m not,” came my witty reply.

  She took a sip from a bottle of beer then pointed one finger over it at me. “PR?”

  “No.” Which I think I had just proved.

  “Hmm.” She took my wrist, turned over my hand and ran a finger over my fingertips. “Not a musician either, though that would have surprised me.” She let go, a little more slowly than I’d expect. “You’re big, but not rockstar bodyguard big, though that fucked-up ear gives you some juice.”

  “Thanks?”

  She took another sip before she said, “So?”

  “So what?”

  “So what brings you to Lizzy Saint’s party?”

  Somehow saying I wanted to interview a witness to a murder didn’t seem like the below the radar appearance I was looking for. I shrugged. “I enjoy music.”

  “Lots of people enjoy music.” She snapped my wristband. “That doesn’t get them to the after-party.”

  “We know some of the same people.”

  She nodded in that way people have when it’s a little loud, looked away, and leaned in. “From where?”

  “A while back.”

  She smiled. “That’s when, not where.”

  “Up north.”

  “The north is a big place.”

  “It is. But I wouldn’t make too big a deal of that in North Carolina.”

  “You, Nate?” said a voice. A man in a black t-shirt sporting onyx stud earrings and a crow’s head tattoo on one arm came up to us. He was a little taller than me and a lot more jacked.

  “I am.”

  “Come with me.”

  I turned to say good-bye to the woman and found that she was gone. As I followed the security guard, I realized that she hadn’t said her name and that she hadn’t been wearing a wristband.

  I followed the guard through the party and two more adjoining doors. When I came to the second one, two more men waited and my guide had me put my arms out.

  “Really?” I said.

  “Really,” said the man.

  They patted me down in a way that convinced me that they’d have found something if I’d been carrying it. Satisfied, the man said, “Go ahead.”

  So I went in to see Lizzy Saint.

  I entered a room that was just as big but noticeably quieter than the others. There was food and there were drinks and there were probably about two dozen people milling around. The guard pointed me in the direction of a corner where a man and a woman stood sipping on beers. The man was dressed entirely in black, of course, and he looked a little pale, a little soft, and had the high, uniform hairline of someone who was fighting mother nature. He looked to be closing in on forty and, when he saw me cross the room towards them, his lips twisted like he’d bit into a lemon.

  The woman was entirely different. She had reddish hair cut in a way that was constantly messed so that she always looked like she’d just finished a concert or climbed out of bed. She wore black leather pants, high black boots, and a sleeveless shirt that was open most of the way to her waist and was held in place by a dark belt with a big silver buckle. She had dark theater makeup on her eyes that made them look incredibly almond-shaped and she smiled as I approached. “Nate Shepherd?”

  “I am. Lizzy?”

  The man snorted and scowled. “Did this clown even see the show?”

  It’s nice when people confirm your initial impression. Makes you feel less bad for assuming they’re an asshole. “I did, Mr. Smoke. Just trying to be polite.”

  Jared Smoke took a long drag of a cigarette and blew the smoke up into the air in a way that I'm sure he thought was both cool and intimidating rather than reeking of stink-filled insecurity. “What's this clown here for, Lizzy?” Another drag. “You have some columns that need adding?”

  Lizzy had a towel draped over one shoulder and she used one end to dab at the back of her neck. “No, baby. He’s a lawyer.”

  Smoke snorted and smoked. “Guess the party can start now.”

  Another time, another place. But it wasn’t, so I said, “Thanks for seeing me, Ms. Saint.”

  “Jesus Christ, it’s Lizzy. And anything for Hank.”

  Smoke's eyes hooded. “This is about Braggi?”

  I didn't respond. Lizzy did. “He just has a couple of questions about what happened. I told him I would help.”

  “It's all in the police report, Chaser,” Smoke said.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  Smoke took a swig of beer, took a drag off his cigarette, and puffed up his chest. “That's what you do, right? Chase ambulances? Leach off stars?”

  “Yes, Mr. Smoke, I leach a living off someone far more talented than me. It's hell, isn’t it?”

  Lizzy reached out and grabbed Smoke's arm in mid-puff. “He's helping Hank, baby.”

  Smoke pulled a little bit against Lizzy's hand in the way of someone who wants to be held back. I stood there and waited while he decided which way this was going to go. He wasn’t going to be a problem, but there were things I’d rather do than get thrashed by a bunch of security guards.

  Finally, he deflated by a peacock feather or two, and said, “Anything for the band family.” Lizzy patted his arm, took a drink of beer, and put her almond eyes on me.

  I nodded. “I'd like to talk to you a little, Lizzy, but I can't do it in front of another witness.”

  Smoke waved for me to go ahead and speak. Lizzy tugged his arm and said, “That means you, baby.”

  It took Smoke about five seconds to realize he’d just been dismissed. “I’d like to catch you next if you don't mind, Mr. Smoke. For the band family.”

  “Sure,” Smoke said in a voice that meant the opposite and took his beer, his smoke, and his ruffled peacock feathers to the other side of the room.

  “Beer?” said Lizzy.

  “Water is fine.”

  “You just evicted my drinking companion, Nate, and I'm not drinking alone after a concert.” She held a bottle out.

  Lizzy's voice was difficult to describe. Just speaking, it had a rasp to it, a growl and a depth that was compelling even when it wasn’t echoing three octaves higher from a wall of amps set to eleven. I found that I wanted to hear more of it, regardless of the information I was seeking.

  “Fair enough,” I said and took the beer, finding its coolness a relief in the Carolina night.

  “So how is Hank?” said Lizzy. “Is he holding up okay?”

  “Pretty well. A little stir crazy.”

  “I bet. He couldn’t stand the tour bus or the plane. Sitting in a cell all day…” Her eyes grew dark. “Well, that would
be hard for him.”

  There didn’t seem much point in telling her that aversion could kill him. “He’s managing.”

  She took another drink. “So you’re representing him?”

  “I am.”

  “Thought he had some old, fancy pants guy.”

  I laughed.

  “What?”

  “That’s what Hank called him.”

  Lizzy smiled in a way that would reach the back row. “We do talk the same way sometimes.”

  “He’s dead. The fancy pants guy.”

  Her eyes darkened again. “Oh. Sorry.”

  “It happens. I’m taking over. I know you might have talked to him.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t.”

  “So I just wanted to find out what you saw, so that I know what’s going to be said at trial.”

  She looked at me, grabbed two more beers, and handed one to me, gazing significantly at the half-full one in my hand. I drank it and took the new one.

  She laughed and I was beginning to understand why Hank and Smoke would do whatever she said. “I don’t remember much,” she said.

  “That’s fine.”

  “I’m not sure what I do remember is helpful.”

  “That’s fine too. I just don’t want to be surprised, Ms. Saint.”

  “Call me Ms. Saint again and I’ll know I can’t trust you.”

  I tipped my bottle and she clinked it. “How do you know Hank, Lizzy?”

  “Met him five, maybe six years ago.”

  “Back in Chicago?”

  Lizzy nodded. “I was part of a different band then.” She smiled and took a sip. “Fatal Echoes, if you can believe that. Last remnants of my high school band. “

  “No one ever likes their first band's name.” You know, because I talk to rock stars all the time.

  “True that. So we were opening at some dive bar, the Gjallarhorn I think, and we took a break and this big, wild-looking guy comes up and tells us that our amplifiers are out of balance, that we need to jack up the vocals and the bass, and dial back the lead guitar. Three of the four of us agreed—”

  “Everyone but the lead guitarist?”

  “You got it. And I'll be goddamned if we don't blow the doors right off the fucking place and destroy. So it was Hank, of course, and he becomes our roadie and sound guy and pretty soon we're blasting the shit out of every bar on the north side of Chicago.”

  “Is that this band?”

  Lizzy shook her head, raised one hand, and two more beers appeared out of nowhere. I finished mine off, set it down, and took the one she offered. “Like I said, we were the last remnants of our high school band. Two of them finished college and went off to real jobs and our drummer decided that ski bum in Colorado had more potential than drummer in north Chicago. So it was pretty grim there for a little bit, just a lead singer and a sound man with no fucking band.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Well, I have no fucking band so that's when I pick up the guitar and start to learn. Hank doesn't really play a lot, but he shows me the cords and shows me some exercises and pretty soon I can at least crank out some rhythms. Then as long as I'm doing rhythms, it seems like I should put some words with it and Hank starts building lyrics with me. After a month of that, it occurs to me that I should get a fucking notebook and put some of this shit down and I do and so for the next three months, I'm learning cords and writing songs.”

  Lizzy shook her head and her eyes went distant. “I didn't have a fucking dime and I don't think I ate anything other than Ramen noodles, but at the end of that summer, I could hold my own on a rhythm guitar and I had a notebook full of songs. And Hank tells me, ‘Fuck it, you don't need a band. Why don't you just book a gig on your own.’ So I do, at a bar that used to let Fatal Echoes play regular, and I knock it out, and three weeks later I have a record deal and a studio band.”

  “Was that the Ripper album?”

  Lizzy smiled. “Well, you were nice enough to do your homework anyway. Yes. Followed it with another one a year later, all with songs out of that fucking notebook. Most productive summer of my life.”

  “Was Hank with you the whole time?”

  Lizzy nodded. “Every step. Always stayed in the background, except on Ripper when one of the label’s engineers was doing his best to fuck up our sound and Hank had to step in and show him how it was meant to be blasted. After that album went platinum, the label didn't fuck with us anymore.”

  “You two pretty close?”

  Her almond eyes glanced sidelong at me. “We weren’t fucking if that's what you're asking.” She took a long drink. “I would've, especially at the beginning. But he never tried and the couple of times I was drunk enough to give it a whirl, he kept working on the music and then tucked me in when I passed out.” She gestured at her body with both hands. “Can you believe that?”

  Frankly, I could not. I smiled, gave a neutral shake of the head, and shrugged.

  “And the motherfucker’s not gay either. Had women in and out of his room all the time. Just not me.” She looked at me. “What was the fucking question?”

  I smiled. “How do you know, Hank?”

  She smiled back. “Me and Hank go way back. All the way to the fucking beginning.”

  So tight friends but not romantic. Jeff was going to build up their connection so that anything she said that supported the prosecution’s case would be even more damning coming from her.

  “Did you bring your wife to the concert?”

  Lizzy’s words jolted me out of my thoughts. “What?”

  I was holding my beer in my left hand. She clinked the top of her bottle on my wedding ring. “Did you bring her along?”

  I struggled to keep my thoughts off my face. “This was more of a work trip.”

  “Hmm. She like rock?”

  I thought for a moment. “We’re not together anymore.”

  She nodded and put the bottle to her lips for a moment. She drank then said, “Transition’s a bitch.”

  I nodded.

  “You seem like a good guy.” She smiled. “For a lawyer.”

  “Rock stars are a piss poor judge of character.”

  Lizzy’s smile deepened. “She’s a fool for leaving you.”

  She didn’t mean to.

  Lizzy offered the clink again and I took it before I said, “What did you see?”

  “That night?”

  I nodded.

  “Not much. We weren’t playing the next day and we didn't have to travel so we all pretty much blew it out.”

  “Hank too?”

  “Always Hank. The man can put it away. And he’s always in the center of the party.”

  “Were you partying with him that night?”

  A look I couldn't read flashed across her face. “Not that night. We were—”

  “Lizzy.” The security guard with the onyx stud earrings appeared before us.

  “Hey, Rick.”

  “Phil needs to see you.”

  “Tell him I'll be there in a minute.”

  “He's got Grant with him.”

  Lizzy swore. “I'm sorry, Nate. President of the label. I can't put him off anymore. Can you hang around for a little bit yet?”

  Other than charming back story, I hadn't learned anything about the night Dillon Chase was killed. “Sure,” I said.

  She grabbed two more beers and pushed one into my hand. “Hang for a little bit. I'll be back.” Then she was gone.

  The second Lizzy left, Jared Smoke came right over to me. He was drinking Jack Daniels straight out of the bottle now, just like they taught in Poser 101. As he lowered the bottle and took another drag from his cigarette, I upped my age estimate of him to over forty instead of under. “What do you want with Lizzy?” he said.

  “Same as I want with you. Just wonder what you saw.”

  Smoke took another draw, squinted, and smiled in a way that I didn't particularly care for. “I saw Hank murder that motherfucker is what I saw.”

&nbs
p; “Did you?”

  Smoke nodded. “The old man went ballistic.”

  I didn't think that Hank looked older than Smoke but who knew. “Did you know Dillon Chase?”

  Smoke took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled straight up into the air, thoughtful. “No. Not really.”

  He didn’t ask me who Dillon Chase was. “No?” I said. “Or not really?”

  “You examining me, Chaser?”

  I shook my head.

  Smoke shrugged. “Guys like that are always around a rock band. Are you a good lawyer? Seems like Hank might need one.”

  “Guys like what?”

  “Guys that want to say they hung out with rock stars.”

  I was tempted to ask if there was more than one rock star there that night, but I needed him to be as neutral as possible so I needed to stay that way too. “Was that the first time you'd met him?”

  “I couldn't tell you,” said Smoke. “I’m not even sure if we’d come through that town before.”

  “So was Chase local?”

  Smoke smirked. “He is now.”

  “How’d he get into the suite?”

  Smoke shrugged and waved a hand at the fairly crowded room we were standing in. “How did any of these motherfuckers get here?” He pointed the whiskey bottle at me. “Damn near anyone can find their way in.”

  Fair enough. “So you said you saw Hank kill him?”

  Jared put his cigarette into a Solo cup and lit another one. “Beat the living shit out of him.”

  “Lizzy was pretty drunk?”

  “Her name is Lizzy Saint, not Saint Lizzy.”

  “So if you saw Hank kill him, you must've seen him shooting Lizzy up.”

  Smoke froze for a moment before he put his lighter back in his pocket. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Hank went after the guy because Lizzy was unconscious and Chase was shooting her up. If you saw Hank kill the guy, then you must've seen Chase shooting Lizzy up.”

  “Don't much care for your tone, Chaser.”

  I shrugged. “You either saw Dillon Chase shooting up Lizzy and didn't do anything about it or you didn't see how this whole thing started. Which is it?”

  There are certain times as a lawyer that you wish you were on the record, where you waste a good examination that no one was ever going to see. This was one of those. I’d let my irritation get the better of me and caught Jared in a lie when it didn’t matter. Now, by the time Smoke got to trial, he'd have his story straight and he would sandpaper all the rough edges off of it. For the momentary pleasure of being clever, I’d just made Hank's case a little harder, goddammit.