Lethal Defense

by Michael Stagg

  I could see Smoke's wheels turning for a moment before his face lightened and the sandpapered story came out. “Lizzy and I went back to the suite with those guys. More people were on the way. Two of the guys were going to get more beer, I went to the bathroom, and everything was fine. When I came back, Braggi was stomping on that poor bastard's face.”

  “Was Hank with you and Lizzy earlier in the night?”

  Smoke’s face pinched. “Braggi was always hanging around.”

  “That a problem?

  Smoke smirked. “It was for Chase.”

  “Do he and Lizzy still write together?”

  “Not from prison.”

  “Before that.”

  Smoke looked away and dragged damn near a third of his cigarette down. “Braggi’s time had passed. Lizzy and I wrote the last album. We were going up to work on it some more the night Braggi went nuts.”

  “When you were that fucked up?”

  “You've obviously never worked with rock stars.” Jared tapped out the butt of his cigarette in the same cup. “Much as I like being cross-examined after a three-hour concert, I think I'll go have someone give me paper cuts instead.” He took a drink out of the whiskey bottle and saluted me with it like he was shooting a 90’s music video.

  I tipped my beer bottle back. “I'll tell Hank you said ‘hi.’”

  “You do that.” Smoke wandered across the suite, mingling from group to group before he went out the door.

  Smoke was not going to be Hank's friend at trial. The prosecutor was going to get some good testimony from him about Hank's brutality and now that I'd warned him, like a fucking moron, about the inconsistency in his story, he'd make sure he got the details just right. I’d need to get more information from Lizzy to salvage this trip.

  Unfortunately, she still hadn’t come back.

  17

  I nursed my beer and checked the time and wondered how long it takes to meet with a record label executive. I suspected that rock time was very different from lawyer time but that record label executive time might be a little closer to mine.

  The room got a little more crowded and the party grew a lot louder, and the occasional guest, usually a woman, came over and started a conversation. Two of them even brought me a beer. Once they learned I wasn't with the band and couldn't introduce them to the guitarist/bassist/drummer/road manager, the conversation usually ended. One woman went a little farther and pressed to see if I was a part of the label and gave me a thumb drive of what I was told were three songs that would blow Lizzy Saint out of the water. I nodded and smiled and pocketed the drive and wondered when Lizzy would return. There were at least thirty people in the room now and I wondered if this was typical after a concert. If it was, then it made the small gathering the night of the killing even more unusual.

  I knew this was probably a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I should be enjoying it more, but all I could think about was that I had to get back to Carrefour and get to work. So much of preparing for trial is just sitting down and slogging through everything you need to know. It's time-intensive and there's no shortcut. This interview was necessary, but partying with a rock band was not the best use of my time.

  The ebb and flow of the party was interrupted by a man who cut straight across the room. He wore a well-tailored blue-gray suit with no tie and a bright white shirt and a matching pocket square. He came right up to and extended his hand. “Nate Shepherd?”

  I shook it. “Yes.”

  “Max Simpson. Lawyer for Grindhouse music. And Ms. Saint.”

  Ah. “Lizzy’s not coming back, is she?”

  “Unfortunately, Ms. Saint was pulled away by other responsibilities.”

  “She told me to wait.”

  Max nodded. “She did. She said to tell you that she’s very sorry.”

  “Can I set up a call with her?”

  “That won't be possible.”

  “Is she going to testify at trial?”

  “Ms. Saint will comply with any legal process that summons her to court.”

  “Has she spoken with the prosecutor?”

  “She gave a statement to the arresting officers. I assume you saw that?”

  “I did. My question was whether she’s talked to the prosecutor about what happened that night.”

  “I believe she might have before I became involved.”

  “I'd like the same opportunity.”

  “I understand that. But your interest is in defending Mr. Braggi. My interest is in protecting Ms. Saint And her reputation.”

  “Hank was trying to protect more than that.”

  Max nodded. “I'm sure Mr. Braggi sees it that way.”

  “Has she spoken with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did she know Dillon Chase?”

  “She tells me that she had not met him before that night.”

  “Does she know who introduced them?”

  “She does not recall.”

  “How does a stranger get to her room?”

  “She doesn't remember that. She was very drunk that night.”

  “So I've been told.”

  “Drunk enough that she doesn't remember most of that night.”

  “Hank tells me that Lizzy doesn’t use heroin.”

  “I've been told the same.”

  I thought. I cursed myself again for spending time on small talk and finding common ground with Lizzy instead of cutting straight to what I needed to know. Now I was going to have to go through Max the Guard Dog to get any information. “So Max, what I need to know is, will Lizzy testify that she has any recollection at all of the physical encounter between Hank Braggi and Dillon Chase?”

  “You mean the killing?”

  “Yes.”

  “She does not. She remembers drinking with the band an hour or so before and, later, coming to in the hotel room with the paramedics.”

  “She remembers drinking with the band. Hank too?”

  Max stared at me for a moment before he nodded. “Hank too.”

  “No other memory at all in that window?”

  “None.”

  “Do you anticipate her recovering any of that memory?”

  Max looked at the ceiling in a way that one does when choosing their words carefully. “I don't think that effort, during the middle of a corporately-sponsored, headlining tour, is the best use of Ms. Saint’s time.”

  That was as good as I was going to get. “Thanks, Max,” I said and extended my hand. He shook it. “I imagine the label would like me to head back to my hotel room so they can wrap this party up.”

  Max smiled and nodded. “That would be most helpful.”

  “Do you have a card?”

  “Of course.” He produced one. I noted the New York area code. “Mind if I call if questions come up?”

  “I don't mind at all. In fact, we would insist that any communications come through me.”

  “You got it. Thanks again.”

  “Certainly.” Max made a beeline back the way he’d came.

  I set down my beer and started to make my way out of the room, turning this way and that with the random jostling of a crowded party. I was halfway there when a shoulder rammed into my chest and the contents of a red Solo cup sloshed onto my shirt.

  “What the fuck, man?” said a man with big arms and blood-shot eyes.

  “Sorry,” I said automatically, and kept moving past.

  The man jabbed at my chest with this free hand. “You spilled my fucking drink!”

  I stopped. The man was wearing the gear of a Lizzy Saint roadie—boots, worn jeans, and black crew t-shirt. He was big and he was drunk and, by the look on his face, he was angry.

  I started to apologize again. Then I saw Smoke on the other side of the room with two other roadies, looking at me, laughing.

  “You fucking idiot,” the Roadie said, and pushed at my chest again.

  I caught his wrist with both hands, bent his hand in, twisted his arm out, and took it straight to the
ground. The rest of him followed, flat to his back. The Roadie’s eyes were wide as he hit the ground and they grew wider when I punched him, hard, right in the solar plexus. His mouth opened and his lips puckered like a fish but no sound came out.

  I stood and kept walking. Judging from the reaction of the crowd, which was none, falling down at an after-party is not an unusual experience.

  I glanced over. Smoke wasn’t laughing. I waved and left.

  Rick, the black-earringed giant, was waiting for me by the door. “I was just leaving,” I said.

  “I thought I’d walk with you,” said Rick.

  “Any problem?”

  The black-earringed giant gave a small smile that quickly vanished. “You seem to have taken care of it.”

  We made our way through the hallway and down the elevator to the lobby.

  “We've arranged an Uber for you, Mr. Shepherd,” Rick said when we arrived.

  “Very considerate. Thanks.”

  Rick walked me all the way to the car and opened the door. “Tell Hank to hang tough.”

  “I will.”

  “Have a good night,” he said and shut the door behind me.

  As we drove away, I was pissed that I hadn't gotten more information from Lizzy. But, if what her attorney said was true, it was helpful to know that she wasn't going to offer any testimony one way or the other about the encounter. Sometimes eliminating the negative was just as important as picking up something positive. If she really didn't have any memory of what happened, then she couldn't be another source of the brutality of Hank’s killing. That would have to do.

  And of course, I’d gotten a good sense of Jared Smoke. Now that I knew he was going to be a problem, I could prepare for him. That was something anyway.

  Now I had to go put together the rest.

  18

  The water on Glass Lake was as smooth as its name as I paddled out to see my dad. It was Sunday afternoon and I had flown back from North Carolina that morning. I was tired, but I knew that this was going to be the last Sunday afternoon barbecue I was going to be able to go to for a while and, to be fair, my dad’s barbequed chicken wasn't something I liked to miss. It was a perfect Michigan summer afternoon—mid-80s, slight breeze, intense sunshine—and my dad was exactly where you'd expect him to be: on his boat in the middle of the lake, fishing with two of his seven grandkids. It took me a little while to get the paddleboard out there, but I didn't mind at all. I’d been cooped up all week and I was about to be cooped up again so standing in the sun while paddling on the water was about as good as it could get.

  As I closed on the boat, I saw three lines in the water. My dad was out there with my brother Tom's middle two daughters, Taylor and Page. “Uncle Nate!” they yelled and waved.

  I waved back as I paddled around the far side of the boat.

  “Look what you've caught, girls,” said my dad. “That's about as ugly a carp as I've ever seen.”

  The girls giggled.

  My dad reached out a hand to help me into the boat then paused and turned to the girls. “Should I throw it back?”

  “Yes,” screamed Taylor and giggled.

  “No,” screamed Page and did the same.

  “Bah, it's so ugly it will scare all the other fish away. I think we'll have to keep it in the boat.” He smiled and pulled me in.

  My father was a weathered hickory plank of a man. He was lean and he was strong and, it being summer, he was deeply tan, making his thick white hair even more shocking. His iron grip pulled me in and he gave me a quick hug around the shoulder. He pointed to his rod and its holder on the side of the boat and said, “Now Taylor, you watch my line and if that whale comes back and tugs on it, I want you to reel it in.”

  “There aren't any whales in here, Pops,” said Taylor.

  “Only small ones. Your dad caught all the big ones.”

  My dad tossed me a rope, which I used to tie-off the paddleboard, then tossed me a beer. “Want a line?” he said.

  “Haven't picked up my license yet.” I cracked the beer and sat.

  My dad’s smile crinkled the side of his eyes. “You need to get your priorities straight, Mr. Lawyer. What good’s all that knowledge if you can’t walk outside and drop a line?”

  “Not much.”

  He smiled and sat in his chair. “How’d the trip go?”

  “Good.”

  “Your mom was worried about the flight this morning.”

  “No problems.”

  “What was in North Carolina?”

  “A witness. They biting today?”

  My dad smiled, a white flash on a brown face. “They were earlier.” He raised his voice. “A certain two princesses didn’t want to go out until after lunch though. You know, when the fish are napping.”

  “Pops!” said Taylor. “We didn’t get here until after lunch!”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “Uncle Nate got here after lunch!” said Page.

  “Uncle Nate’s not fishing. He’s just out here scaring the fish with his ugly face.”

  The girls giggled. “See, it’s your fault, Uncle Nate!” said Page.

  “Well then, let’s wake those fish up!”. I leapt across the boat, grabbed Page under the arms, and whirled around to throw her into the water. “Cannonball!”

  Page screamed and I didn’t let go and Taylor laughed as I put her little sister back on her seat.

  I grabbed them both a water out of the cooler and sat back down as the two of them debated whether Page’s screams or my ugly face were scaring the most fish.

  My dad leaned back in his chair and smiled. Without looking away from his granddaughters, he said, “Your mom said you’re going to trial again?”

  I nodded. “Couple of weeks. Won’t be able to come up for a few weekends.”

  “Figured.” He looked out over the water. “That murder case?”

  “Yeah. You know about it?”

  He shrugged. “Your mom keeps me up to speed.” He leaned forward and fiddled with the depth of his line. “Didn’t think you did that kind of work.”

  “Unusual situation. One-time thing.”

  He glanced at his granddaughters before reeling in a little more line. “Sure it’s a good idea?”

  My dad and I usually talked about football and fishing and my nieces and nephews. For him to know one of my cases in particular was unusual. For him to comment in any way was unprecedented.

  “I’ll be fine, Dad.”

  He nodded. “You know best.” He stood and reeled his line all the way in. “Bring ‘em in, girls.”

  The girls screamed “Nooo!” in uniform protest.

  “We’re not stopping. We’re just seeing if there’s a fish party in the shade on the west shore over there.”

  I stood. “I think I’ll head in.”

  “Tell your mom we’ll be back in an hour or so.”

  “Can I go with you, Uncle Nate?” said Page.

  “I thought you were going to the fish party?”

  “I want to ride the paddleboard!”

  I frowned down at her. “No free-loading trolls allowed.”

  “I’ll paddle!”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Pleaaaaaase?”

  “Hmmph,” I said.

  She made a paddling motion with her hands.

  “I guess.” I untied the board, lined it up alongside the boat, and hopped on. I held it steady as my dad lifted Page over the side and deposited her squarely on the front of the board, where she immediately sat cross-legged.

  “Don’t let the whales get you,” my dad said.

  “There are no whales, Pops!”

  My dad waved a hand. “I fed them yesterday. You should be fine.”

  I pushed the board away from the boat with my paddle and started back, me standing in the middle, my niece sitting in the front. We saw five ducks, a loon, and a turtle on the way back.

  But no whales.

  When we grounded our board on the shore back at my par
ents’ place, my brothers, my sisters-in-law, and my nephews had a circus of yard games going on that looked like it included bocce and cornhole. My oldest niece Reed, though, was standing in the water up to her knees, waiting for us. “Uncle Nate! You’re famous!”

  No lawyer wants to hear that unexpectedly. Well, maybe a couple do but they’re assholes.

  “Because you’re my niece?”

  “No. You’re all over Entertainment Buzz!”

  I scowled. “What are you talking about, Troll?”

  She didn’t even let me get out of the water as she walked in to meet me, phone extended. Reed, Page, and I huddled around it as I shaded the screen with one hand against the sun until I could see the headline: “Mystery Man meets with Rock Star about Murder.” There was a picture of me at the after-party last night, leaning in close to Lizzy Saint so I could hear her. It looked cozier than I’d like.

  “Did you really meet her, Uncle Nate?” said Reed.

  “I really did.”

  “Here.” Reed hit the button and a fifteen-second loop of video played with me leaning in, nodding and smiling, as Lizzy spoke. Below was the text:

  Rising star Lizzy Saint was seen with the new lawyer who will be defending her former sound engineer, Hank Braggi, in his upcoming murder trial. Mr. Braggi is accused of killing Dillon Chase in Ms. Saint’s hotel suite last spring.

  EB has learned that the mysterious new attorney is Nate Shepherd of Carrefour, Michigan. After lead attorney Christian Dane died last week, Mr. Shepherd stepped in to take over Mr. Braggi’s defense. He apparently lost no time in snuggling up to one of the prosecution’s chief witnesses and purported source of the fatal dispute, Lizzy Saint. This reporter watched Mr. Shepherd operate at close quarters to Ms. Saint in the late evening hours after a concert this weekend in North Carolina. Ms. Saint certainly did not seem to mind.