by Dave Daren
“Have you handled this kind of criminal case before?” Lamon asked.
A curious question, but a good one given that Parish, McHale’s criminal expertise tended towards white collar crimes. My new client was just full of surprises.
“I have,” I stated though I didn’t offer anything else.
“Okay,” Lamon said a moment later. “You’re my attorney, unless I find out you’re really working for my dad.”
“Then I’m your attorney,” I declared. “So why don’t we start with what happened. I want you to tell me the whole story in your own words. I won’t ask any questions until you get to the end, and then I’ll ask for more details.”
“Where should I start?” Lamon asked.
It’s the question every client asks, whether a corporate CEO who’s been moving money off the books or a homeless guy who tried to steal a purse.
“Why were you driving in Manhattan?” I suggested.
“My friend had an interview,” Lamon began. “He didn’t want to take the subway because he’d bought a new suit, but he didn’t think he had enough to cover cab fare. I told him I’d give him a lift after I got off work. I was going to wait for him but I couldn’t find a parking spot nearby, so I told him to call me when he was done and I would pick him up.”
I nodded when Lamon stopped. He stared at his hands for a moment and then ran a hand through his short hair.
“I figured I’d find a spot that wasn’t too far away,” Lamon continued. “There’s a Shake Shack near there and I thought I could just grab something to eat real quick while I waited. I saw someone pulling out around the corner, so I checked for traffic, then made a right turn.”
“Mmmm,” I remarked as I continued to write on my pad.
“The light was red,” Lamon admitted. “And I didn’t see the cops. I started to pull into the spot, and the beat cops were right there.”
Lamon heaved a heavy sigh and glanced towards the window.
“I wasn’t even all the way in before the one was tapping on my window and demanding to see my license and registration,” Lamon added. “So I put the car in park, rolled down the window and handed over my license and registration. Didn’t even ask what I was being written up for. I just figured it was my bad luck to make a right on red just as the cops were walking by.”
“Uh-huh,” I agreed.
“So they call in my tag and my license, and everything’s normal,” Lamon said. “But then the one cop, the woman, realized I was blocking the exit from the parking garage. There was some angry guy in a hummer who started to honk his horn, and he probably would have driven over me if the police weren’t there. Anyway, the woman cop went to talk to the guy in the hummer while the other cop, the one who had my license came back to me. He told me to go ahead and back up so the Hummer could get out. Then he stepped away from the car, so I put it in reverse and started to back up. There was a car parked behind me, so I was watching to make sure I didn’t hit that one.”
“And?” I urged.
“And the cop was still standing on the road, not on the sidewalk,” Lamon said. “When I tried to finish parking the car, I ran over his foot, I guess.”
“Keep going,” I said.
“I didn’t realize anything had happened, at first,” my client sighed. “I didn’t feel anything. I just got the car in the spot, and then I heard the woman cop start yelling. I thought she was yelling at the guy in the Hummer at first because he tore out of the garage like a bat out of hell, but then I saw the other cop hopping around on one foot on the sidewalk. I didn’t know what to do, but the woman cop came over to the car and told me to get out. When I asked what was going on, she didn’t say anything, she just yanked the door open and told me to get out. I did, and she pushed me up against the side of the car, put the handcuffs on me, and then shoved me to the ground. I sat there while she called the ambulance, and then while the EMT’s looked at the guy’s foot, and that took forever. A cop car showed up as well, and they put me in the back seat. I kept asking them what was going on, but no one would talk to me. Eventually, the cops got back in the car and drove me to the precinct. I don’t even know what happened to my car or anything.”
Lamon seemed to have run out of steam, but I let the silence drag on for a few more moments.
“They took me to the nearest precinct,” Lamon resumed, “and put me in a cell there. Then some guy came by and told me they were transferring me to Rikers. That’s when I asked for an attorney.”
“You weren’t formally charged until this morning,” I replied. “And you’ve been slotted for a hearing tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t know what to do,” he said. “Should I plead guilty? I mean, I guess I did it, though I didn’t realize it.”
“It may not come to that,” I noted. “When did they tell you what the charge was?”
“Ummm,” my client fumbled. “When the guy came to tell me I was being moved to Rikers. He said I’d assaulted a cop.”
“And when did they read you your rights?” I asked. “You know, you have the right to an attorney, you have the right to remain silent.”
Lamon stared at me blankly for a moment.
“Same time,” Lamon said hesitantly. “Yeah, definitely when the guy came to tell me I was being moved. That was the first and only time they gave me the warning.”
“You’re sure?” I pressed.
“I’m sure,” Lamon pointed out. “Does it make that much of a difference? It’s not like anybody asked me any questions or anything. They just put me on the bus and sent me here.”
“Maybe, but there are certain procedures the police have to follow,” I explained. “And it sounds like they didn’t do that here.”
“Really?” Lamon asked. “It’s that simple?”
“It could be,” I said. “Let’s walk through your story again, only this time I want you to help me work out a timeline.”
“Sure,” Lamon said with the first bit of enthusiasm he had shown since I had arrived.
By the time I had finished my interview, I had a strategy in mind and a couple of phone calls to make. Lamon was bouncing with enthusiasm, though he wasn’t entirely sure what my plan was. It was enough that I had one and I think he was happy that he had decided to stick with me instead of the usual Legal Aid attorney.
“Is there anybody I should call?” I asked as I pushed the pad and pen across the table.
“I guess my friend, Joey Palladino, just so he doesn’t think I flaked out on him,” my client replied as he scribbled down a pair of phone numbers. “And probably the brewery. Though maybe just tell them I got sick?”
“What about your parents?” I pressed.
“No,” Lamon said emphatically as he pushed the pad and pen back to me. “I don’t want them to know, and I don’t want my dad sending one of his guys out to take care of things.”
“I’ll see you in the morning, then,” I replied as I repacked my briefcase.
Lamon nodded, and then we were heading our separate ways. I followed the guard back through the dank and noisy hallways of the jail to the main entrance, then stepped back into sunshine and almost fresh air. I joined an elderly Chinese couple near the bus stop, where they carried on a whispered conversation. The bus eventually arrived, and the three of us boarded the bus for the return trip to the parking lot.
After a few more stops, the bus pulled up to the parking lot stop where another large crowd waited to board. It was the lunchtime horde, and I had to push my way through the throng just to get off the bus. I spotted my driver and high-tailed it across the parking lot, eager to be off the island and working the phones back in my office.
“Your client okay?” the driver asked as I slid into the back seat.
He’d been reading a newspaper, which he now carefully folded and placed on the seat next to him.
“He’ll be better when I get him out of here,” I replied.
“Ya,” the driver agreed as he pulled out of his spot and turned the car towards the
bridge.
I used the time in the car to call Joey Palladino, who was glad to hear that Anthony was alive but bummed to hear that he was in jail. When I mentioned that I expected him to be out of jail soon, Joey promised to throw a large party. Anthony’s employer was not at all interested in the details, and blindly assumed that Anthony was out sick and would be back to work soon. The young woman on the other end of the phone also assumed I was the roommate and hung up before I could say much more than I was calling on his behalf to explain why he hadn’t come to work.
We were still working our way through traffic when I finished those calls so I checked the file one more time, then dialed the precinct where Lamon had been taken after his arrest. The call was answered by one of those automated responses, and after listening to my options, I pressed four to be connected to the duty desk.
“Yo,” a Brooklyn accent barked a moment later.
“I wanted to speak to Officer Jenkins,” I replied.
“Which one?” the Brooklyn accent asked in a bored tone.
I glanced at the report.
“Bruce Jenkins,” I replied.
“He ain’t in today,” the Brooklyn accent said.
“Oh,” I said with heavy disappointment. “I thought he was on duty today.”
“He was injured,” the Brooklyn accent replied.
“I hope it wasn’t serious,” I said with a trace of concern.
“He’ll be back tomorrow,” the voice assured me. “Is there someone else who can help you?”
“No, it can wait until tomorrow,” I sighed. “Thank you.”
I hung up, then sat back in the seat to watch the city go by while I contemplated what I had just learned. Whatever injury Officer Jenkins had suffered during the incident wasn’t serious enough to keep him away from the job that long. Another point in our favor, even though the law, in theory, didn’t care about the severity of the injury.
I had the driver drop me off in front of the corner bodega so I could run in and grab a sandwich. The place was packed, but the two men and one woman who made the sandwiches were masters of the art, and I soon had a pastrami on rye with a bag of chips and a bottle of root beer to carry back to my desk.
“Where the heck have you been all morning?” Mark asked when I arrived back at our office.
My officemate was working on a bowl of noodles from the Japanese place across the street and the room smelled vaguely like ginger. I almost hated to ruin that by pulling out my own lunch, but my stomach rumbled to remind me that I hadn’t had anything besides a toasted bagel with a schmear for breakfast.
“Meeting with a client,” I said vaguely as I sat down and started to unwrap my lunch.
“Uh huh,” Mark chuckled. “Another assignment from Bridgit, right? Man, you need to start taking on some more regular assignments. Noble was a little pissed that you left during his presentation, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to assign you to the case anyway.”
“Yeah, well,” I said around a mouthful of tender, delicious pastrami and tangy mustard, “this one should be wrapped up soon. I can give his new matter my full attention then.”
“It’s gonna be a slog,” my officemate sighed. “They’ve only started to try to get a handle on how much material has to be reviewed, and the numbers are huge.”
“Bridgit mentioned that they’re talking about two hundred temps for review work,” I said.
“That’s just to start,” Mark replied.
“So no weekends or evenings off for how long?” I asked.
“The client wants to certify compliance in six months,” Mark said.
“Damn, no wonder they want to bring in so many temps,” I replied.
“Lots of staff are getting assigned as well,” Mark added. “Including us.”
“You’ll just have to fill me in, then,” I suggested with a waggle of my eyebrows.
“No need,” Mark laughed. “Noble wants to have a team meeting within the next day or two so everyone can be up to speed.”
“In the meantime,” I said, “I have a court appearance in the morning and some legal research to do this afternoon.”
The rest of the afternoon passed quietly as Mark and I settled into our work for the day. Sometimes we’d bounce ideas off each other or share a joke, but mostly the day passed to the sound of fingers on keyboards with sporadic interruptions by the phone. Mark escaped first as he bounded out of the office to meet his fiancee for dinner and a show. The sky was dark and the streetlights already on by the time I shut down my computer and finally stood up for a bone-cracking stretch.
“Mr. Morgan, I’m glad to see you working late tonight,” a woman’s voice said from the door. “We haven’t been seeing that much of you lately.”
“Just reviewing those edits,” I replied. “I think we’re close to a final contract.”
“That’s good,” the woman said as she stepped into the office and looked around.
The woman was Barbara Ovitz, yet another partner in the firm. She was barely over five feet, but she carried herself like she was a six-foot Amazon armed with a bazooka. Her steel gray hair and cold eyes only added to the impression that she was about to steamroll you, or blow you out of the way, whichever would be easier at the moment.
“I hear you’ll be on Peter’s team,” she said as she turned her reptilian gaze on me.
“Oh, uh, yes,” I agreed.
“That’s good,” she stated. “That’s a matter that should bring in plenty of income for the firm.”
“I can imagine,” I said.
“And for junior associates, it will be a great way to distinguish yourself,” she added.
“Of course,” I replied.
“That could be very important for someone like you, Hunter,” she said.
“How so?” I asked.
“You’re getting a reputation for working nothing but these small pro bono cases,” Barbara explained. “The partners are starting to wonder if you even understand who our clients are and how we pay the bills around here.”
“I do understand that,” I said quickly. “And I spend most of my hours working for those clients.”
“Still, you do seem to have an inordinate number of pro bono clients,” she noted. “Not that we discourage pro bono work, but you can’t do it at the expense of our true clients.”
“But these pro bono clients are my clients,” I pointed out. “Just as much as the firm’s clients are my clients.”
Barbara stared at me for several heartbeats, and I half expected to see a snake tongue dart out and taste the air between us.
“Of course they are,” she finally said. “But those paying clients make the pro bono work possible. You need to make sure they’re taken care of first.”
“I think I’ve been doing that,” I asserted. I didn’t care for the insinuation that I was neglecting any of my clients and if she had a problem with my work output, she should come out and say it directly.
“Perhaps,” she said. “Though you should know that there won’t be any time for pro bono matters once this second request is under way.”
“I expect to have my current cases wrapped up soon,” I replied.
“Good,” she declared as she took a last look around the office. “Let’s keep it pro bono free for a few months, and then we can reevaluate your work.”
Ovitz stalked from the office then, and I fought the urge to throw my stapler at her retreating back. There were times when I hated working for a big firm, and this was definitely one of them. I snatched up the Lamon file instead and retreated toward the elevators. As I waited for one of the elevators to arrive, I kept hearing Ovitz’s peremptory tone as she told me to back away from the pro bono cases, not to mention the unsavory suggestion that I wasn’t properly supporting all of my clients.
While I fumed and glared at the unyielding doors to my escape, a thought suddenly niggled at my brain. The cops had, eventually, told my client what the charge was and read him his rights, but they hadn’t completed the
official process of taking him into custody. And just like that, I knew how I would get him off.
Chapter 2
Any courthouse in New York City on any given day is guaranteed to be packed beyond capacity. There was a time when the courts were so busy that they operated twenty-four hours a day, and the whole concept of night court became part of the lexicon as well as the basis of a TV show. The courts no longer operate on an around the clock schedule, though night court still exists and has become something of a weird tourist attraction.
It would have been easier for me if my client had been brought before the evening judge, but he was brought in bright and early the next morning. I fired off a quick ‘out of the office on a case, back in by lunch’ email to various supervisors while I was still getting dressed, then dropped the laptop into my briefcase and joined the masses gathered at the subway station for the trip to Manhattan.
People who are unfamiliar with the New York transit system imagine that riding the subway during rush hour must be one of the worst things in the world, and there are definitely times when that’s true. Usually, an unexpected emergency such as a ‘sick passenger’ or ‘police action’ that closes one of the stations will create such a backup that it’s impossible to even squeeze onto a train. But on most days, like today, the whole thing rumbles along the way it’s supposed to and though the subway cars are crowded, it also affords you a chance to read or just ponder the day ahead.
By the time I arrived at the courthouse stop, I’d already mapped out what I wanted to say and how I wanted to say it. Of course, that could change, depending on the judge, but I was convinced I had the winning argument. I bounded up the stairs, and joined the queue for the x-ray machine. The court officers, who looked like the offensive line for the Giants, moved everyone through with grim efficiency, and I was in the courtroom before either the prisoners or the judge appeared.
“You’re here for the Lamon case?” one of the state attorneys asked.
She had probably graduated from law school the same time I had, though she kept her hair back in a tight bun and a frown on her face.
“I am,” I agreed. “Are you the prosecutor on the case?”
