Alex put on a little kid’s voice, "But I thought you wuuved me."
She replied with a drill-sergeant tone. "You’ll dictate your own background and you’ll like it."
"Okay, fine. Ready?
She switched to a huskier, action-hero voice. "I was born ready."
"On the night in question, November 23, 1999, Mendoza had been gambling in a private room at the Royale Casino in Atlantic City until around 10 PM. He’d been driven back into Lower Manhattan via the Holland Tunnel and had eaten a late meal at Vinny’s Restaurant—where he ate every Friday night."
Alex stopped suddenly.
"Done?" Susan asked. "What about the Alvarado bio? Don’t you usually include that?"
He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out.
Joey Bonner was stepping out of a taxi not more than twenty feet from him, trailed by three other members of the prosecution team. She carried a leather briefcase and slipped on a pair of sleek black sunglasses as the sun hit her face. As she leaned in through the window to pay the driver, Alex took in every inch of her. Except on TV, he’d never seen her outside of the courtroom where the staged, professional vibe made her seem entirely unapproachable. But here, standing on the sidewalk, she seemed even more out of his league than she did in court. To Alex, it was like seeing a movie star in real life.
"Alex? Hello? Alex!" Susan’s voice brought him back to reality.
"Sorry, sorry. I just…"
"Alex?"
"Yes, sorry, that’s it. If you don’t mind, can you just clean that up a smidge? Double check it. I’ll be in the office in the morning."
He hung up without waiting to hear Susan’s response.
His face froze. His chest tightened. Joey was pulling off her shades and walking right toward him.
Sample: The Cutline, Chapter Two
By the time she reached him, Alex had regained his composure. Enough of it, at least, to fake his way through.
He was twenty-six years old, six foot two, and looked a little like the oldest Backstreet Boy but with a more athletic build. He wore the typical uniform of a journalist: nice jeans, a button-down shirt, a sports coat but no tie. Never a tie. While his colleagues wore browns, blues, and off-whites, Alex always wore light gray jeans with a black button down and a dark gray jacket. He’d chosen the outfit because, while it was passable in court, he could also hit the town afterwards without having to change clothes. He made his living talking his way into rooms he wasn’t supposed to be in and digging up information he wasn’t supposed to have, so he was better at feigning confidence than most people are at anything.
Joey paused a yard in front of him and eyed him with a look he couldn’t read, but before she could speak, Alex said, "Prosecutor Bonner, welcome to Bar 76. Would you like to conduct our hour-long, on-the-record interview here on the sidewalk, or can I get you a dirty martini inside?"
She smiled. "That’s my drink. You must do your research, Journalist Vane."
Alex trafficked in information and kept an internal tally of trivial facts that might someday prove useful, including the favorite drinks of the ten people around the courthouse he’d most like to have a drink with. Joey was number three on the list. She was probably the eighth most-useful source but, well, she made it to number three on style points.
"Call me Alex," he said, extending an arm. "Shall we?"
She stepped back. Gave him a look. "You really are as full of yourself as people say, aren’t you?"
"Yes. Yes I am. But you’d be surprised at how often that works. I once got a precinct captain in the Bronx to air the borough’s dirty laundry by showing up at his kid’s birthday party at the zoo. Poor guy was so bored hanging around a bunch of seven-year-olds, he fed me on-the-record quotes for an hour."
"Didn’t he get fired for that?"
"Technically he got demoted, but...yeah."
"So I should watch myself with you, shouldn’t I?"
"You should watch yourself with any reporter."
"True, but you’re not just any reporter, from what I hear." She glanced back toward the street. The man and two women she’d brought with her were standing on the curb, talking on cell phones. She waved at them to come over.
"How about this," she said, turning back to Alex. "You sit with me and my team for a bit and I’ll buy you the drink. We’ll only have a half hour or so. We’ve got a working dinner. You may have heard, we’re in the midst of a major murder trial."
"Yeah I heard something about that. According to The New York Standard"—he cleared his throat and used his breaking news voice—"the prosecution made a compelling case, but defense attorney Diego Dos Santos is expected to mount a strong defense as well."
"Hmmm? Is that what they wrote? I don’t read The Standard."
Alex stepped back. "Ouch."
The three colleagues appeared at Joey’s side out of nowhere, the man eyeing Alex suspiciously.
"I’ll grab us a table," Alex said, swinging open the steel door.
Bar 76 was one of the swankiest bars in Lower Manhattan. High ceilings, plush chairs, big TVs, and the longest copper bar in the city. It also had a full menu of avant-garde sushi prepared by chefs in an elevated, glass-encased sushi bar. Alex asked for a table on the second floor balcony space, figuring that Joey and the others would be more likely to feed him some information if they were out of sight. He was supposed to meet his buddy in a few minutes, but Bearon would understand. This was one of those too-good-to-be-true moments that Alex had found himself experiencing quite a bit lately. He didn’t know why she’d approached him in the first place, but there was no way he was going to pass up a chance to chat with Joey Bonner.
He texted Bearon that he’d be at least half an hour late and, a few minutes later, the five of them were sitting at a table that looked down onto the open floor plan of Bar 76. The Mariners-Yankees game wouldn’t start for another hour, but the bar was already bustling below them. The music was so loud that it was difficult to hear each other without leaning in, so, after awkward introductions, they broke off into two groups. Alex sat on one side of the table next to Joey, and the three members of the prosecution team sat on the other.
At first, Alex had taken the distrustful glance from the assistant for romantic jealousy. But, if he was reading it right, Joey was not involved with him. Alex decided he probably just hated reporters.
Alex knew that Joey wasn’t married, but didn’t know anything beyond that. And by the time she took the first sip of her second martini, Joey was leaning in close, allowing her elbow to graze the edge of his knee.
"How do you think the trial is going?" she asked.
"Good. I mean, I don’t have anything to compare it to, but—"
"Congratulations, by the way. It’s not every day you get your first big reporting gig."
Alex tried to think of something humble to say, but he just smiled. As good as he was at feigning confidence, he was jittery as hell on the inside.
Joey asked, "What are you hearing about Dos Santos?"
"I hear all sorts of things about all sorts of things."
"You’re not hearing anything interesting?"
Alex was used to this dance. He had five conversations a day that were somewhere between flirtation and information-swapping, but rarely with anyone as alluring as Joey Bonner. "Ms. Bonner, is there any chance you’re flirting with me to get information that could aid the prosecution?"
She eased an olive off of its plastic toothpick between her front teeth and rolled it around with her tongue before biting down. "I am, but no more than you are flirting with me in hopes that I’ll leak you something you can run in The Standard tomorrow."
"That’s where you’re wrong," Alex said. "I filed already."
"Already? I assumed you were going back to the office tonight."
"They let me file from the field."
"Aren’t you the little golden boy?"
Alex just let it hang there.
She swallowed the olive and lean
ed in closer, so close that Alex could smell the salty brine on her breath. "But seriously, why aren’t you guys running anything on him?"
"Dos Santos?"
"Who else?"
"We did."
The Standard had run a couple pieces on Dos Santos over the last few weeks, including a 2,000-word feature Alex himself had written. But lawyers were always trying to make their opposition look bad, so it was no surprise that Joey would be prodding him.
She said, "You barely scratched the surface, though. He’s—"
"I may be new, but I’m not that new. You’ve been trying to get him off the case since before the case even started. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the great Diego Blanco?"
She smirked and turned to her colleagues. "Guys, Alex wants to know if we’re afraid of Dos Santos."
One of the women had her phone pressed to her ear, the other didn’t respond, and the man shrugged like he couldn’t hear her.
"Maybe you’re not afraid," Alex said. "But you certainly wouldn’t have minded facing someone else."
"If you knew what we knew…let’s just say…never mind, I shouldn’t." She stood abruptly and excused herself to use the restroom. Alex pulled out his phone and saw a new text from Bearon:
I’m running late, too. Be there in twenty.
Alex texted him back:
I’m at a table on the inside balcony. With JOEY BONNER!!! Can’t decide what I love about her more: her smile or her information.
Joey had good reason to fear Dos Santos. After attending Saint Thomas University School of Law—the lowest-ranked law school in the Miami area—Dos Santos got his start defending Cuban immigrants against DUIs, public drunkenness, and other minor crimes. In his early years, he’d earned a reputation as a fighter for the little guy, but things changed after he successfully defended a Florida Marlins outfielder against a cocaine arrest. Dos Santos had used the case as a stepping stone to the big time. He’d made a career out of defending drug cases, usually with successful plea bargains but occasionally with high-profile trials. The Miami papers had dubbed him "Diego Blanco," or Diego White, because of his expertise in defending people caught with Miami’s drug of choice. In the mid-90s he’d risen to national celebrity by defending a few major drug traffickers, then had relocated to New York City in 1997. He was now thought of as one of the best defense attorneys in the five boroughs.
When the facts were on his side, he had a knack for explaining them in a way that resonated with juries. Dos Santos had come from nothing and was living the American Dream. A dream the jurors wanted to live as well. They admired and trusted him, despite the fact that he was often defending people who had already been found guilty in the court of public opinion. And when the facts weren’t on his side, he was brilliant at drawing out a trial—obscuring, obfuscating, and running misdirections until the jurors were so confused, they no longer cared if the defendant was guilty.
He was hypnotic.
Alex’s phone buzzed with a text from Bearon.
Tell her you’ll look into him if she gives you something on him. Something real.
Dos Santos also had a reputation for playing fast and loose with ethical and legal lines. Alex had written of his multiple run-ins with ethics tribunals for conflict of interest violations, but he’d never done anything that earned him more than a slap on the wrist. In one case, a conflict of interest had arisen after taking on a client and his firm had failed to report it to the judge. In another, he’d defended two men in a rape trial and, after finding out that one was the instigator of the attack, he’d thrown him under the bus while using the knowledge to land a sweet plea deal for the other. He’d also gotten romantically involved with at least one client and the mother of another. Nothing illegal about that, but it had raised some eyebrows and won him the reputation as someone who operated by his own rules.
Joey’s efforts to get Dos Santos removed from the Mendoza case had started before jury selection. Back in Miami, Dos Santos had once defended the victim, Victor Alvarado, in a domestic violence case. Representing the man accused of killing a former client was called “successive representation,” and it was rare. The main issue was whether the lawyer had learned anything while representing the victim that would hinder his ability to represent the new client. But since the case had been seven years earlier, and a minor one, there was not enough evidence to determine that a conflict existed. Joey had raised the issue with Judge Butcher in the pre-trial phase, but Supreme Court precedent allowed judges wide discretion when it came to conflict of interest cases. Since Mendoza had signed a form acknowledging and dismissing the potential conflict, Butcher had sided with Dos Santos and allowed him to lead the trial.
When Joey returned, Alex had his question ready. "Is there something you’re trying to tell me, Prosecutor Bonner?"
She finished her martini with one long sip and waved the empty glass at a busboy. "Just that I need another one of these." She strung out and swallowed the middle "e" in "these.” Her Mississippi drawl coming out. "Southern gals can drink, you know."
Alex’s heart almost melted, but he was trying to play it cool. "You know, Prosecutor Bonner, your accent comes out when you get tipsy."
She leaned in again, closer this time. "Alex, I’m telling you. I can’t say much more, but if you look into Dos Santos, you’ll find out he’s worse than the worst rumors you’ve heard about him. Worse than anything you’ve reported yet."
"What if I asked him about you? You have a reputation as a bit of a pit bull." His mouth was only a few inches from her ear.
"I went to Mississippi State. I’m a bulldog."
The male assistant, whose name Alex had already forgotten, slid his chair around and wedged it between them. Alex sat back and watched him whisper to her for a long time. Joey’s smile turned to an expression of stoic seriousness, then to a frown.
The assistant stood and said, "I’ll get the check."
"What is it?" Alex asked.
"Nothing I can’t handle. You’ll find out tomorrow in court. Nice talking with you, handsome."
With that, she was up and gone, and Alex was scanning the bar for Bearon.
—End—
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About the Author
A.C. Fuller writes media thrillers and literary fiction. He’s the creator and host of the WRITER 2.0 Podcast, a weekly interview show featuring award-winning writers and publishing experts.
He was once a freelance journalist in New York and taught in the NYU Journalism School from 2006 to 2008. He now teaches English at Northwest Indian College near Seattle and leads writing workshops around the country and internationally, including classes for the Pacific Northwest Writers Association, the Write in the Harbor Conference, and the Royal City Literary Arts Society.
He lives with his wife, two children, and two dogs near Seattle.
And he loves hearing from readers.
@acfullerauthor
acfullerauthor
www.acfuller.com
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Light Remains: Three Stories Page 6
