Lassiter jl-8

by Paul Levine

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

  “And Alex Castiel ordered a bottle of red wine. Chateauneuf-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 solar
ium …”

  “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 startled 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 …”

  “Let me know when you find it.”

  He flicked the lighter, watched the orange flame, then snapped the top shut. “I’d be amenable to Manslaughter, seven to ten years.”

  That caught me by surprise. I wondered what happened to: “I’m taking her down, and I don’t give a shit if I take you down with her.”

  “Strange, you making this offer right before Charlie Ziegler is gonna testify.”

  “Got nothing to do with him.”

  “Sure it does. He’s out of control.”

  “I met with him last night. He’s strong and steady. Sticking to his testimony.”

  “That could have been the Chateauneuf-du-Pape talking.” I was showing off, letting him know I wasn’t clueless about his dinner date.

  From the door behind the bench, the bailiff poked his head into the courtroom, checked us out, and said, “Mr. Castiel, if you’re gonna smoke that thing, I’ll get the air freshener.”

  “It’s okay, Oscar.” Castiel slipped the cigar back into his pocket. The bailiff left and Castiel turned back to me. “Charlie feels remorse for whatever happened to Krista Larkin. Amy showing up brought it all back to him. Messed him up.”

  “Why not just admit it, Alex? You don’t trust Ziegler. You’re scared shitless of what he’s gonna say.”

  “The matching bullets are enough for conviction. I don’t need Charlie.”

  “Fine. Don’t call him.”
r />   “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, old buddy?”

  “You bet. In closing argument, I’d remind the jury that you promised an eyewitness. Or maybe I’ll call Ziegler on my case. Helluva chess match, Alex.”

  “What about it, Jake? Will you recommend your client take the plea?”

  “Amy swears she didn’t shoot Perlow. Whenever I can avoid it, I try not to send innocent people to prison.”

  Castiel sighed and looked genuinely sad for his old buddy, namely me. “So many bad choices.”

  “Maybe, but they’re my choices.”

  “You’re gonna lose, and Larkin’s gonna get new lawyers. They’ll file an appeal claiming ineffective assistance of counsel, and you’ll be in the papers.”

  “My clients don’t read the papers.”

  Another click of the lighter, the flame dancing. Castiel’s pyromaniacal habit was getting on my nerves. “Just looking out for you, Jake. Didn’t expect you to listen.”

  “You’re saying I should learn from Perlow? First, save myself.”

  “It’s not bad advice. Uncle Max started telling me that when I was nine years old. Lansky had been telling him that for thirty years.”

  I pondered his words. The me-first philosophy had been passed from gangster to gangster to prosecutor. Nothing out of line about that in Castiel’s world. He’s the one who believed that life is a constant struggle of the valiant side versus the dark side. Ever since that first day in his office, I’d been wondering which team was winning in the battle for Castiel’s soul.

  60 Living a Lie

  Castiel wished me bad luck and left. In a few minutes, the courtroom would be open for business. Nothing good would happen this afternoon. It seldom does on the state’s side of the case. One of Ziegler’s employees would take the stand. She was yet another “stalking witness,” having seen Amy lurking in his office building lobby a few days before the shooting. Then a lab tech would testify that shoeprints in the mud of a construction site next to Ziegler’s house matched the running shoes found in Amy’s motel room. Finally, a cop would tell the jury about Amy’s stunt outside the Grand Jury chambers. The maraschino cherry on top of that sundae would be her threat: “Charlie Ziegler killed Krista! If you won’t do something about it, I will.” Like I said, not a great day for the defense.