by Nick Dorsey
Jean was surprised to find her office wasn’t empty. Instead, a big man with shirt-tails untucked was sitting there, oxfords up on the desk, absentmindedly scratching a thick red goatee. Eason Kandinsky was one of the few attorneys who stayed on after the storm. There was much speculation as to why he did so, the whispers ranging from his being a true-believer fanatical devotee of public defense to his being too lazy to learn another organization’s office floor plan. Jean didn’t think he stayed for either reason. She thought he liked a good fight.
Eason had been her rabbi in the office, her mentor from the moment she stepped foot in the building. He guided her through hundreds of cases. Helped her plan strategies. Told her where to order food when working a case overnight. And he only made a pass at her once, early on, which she had quickly rebuffed and he took the hit without pouting or brooding over the rejection.
When she pulled the Adelfi case in the office rotation, he left her to it. “Three years in, it’s time to fly on your own.” And so she had, and the thing had blown up in her face.
Now he swiveled his chair to face her and put his feet on the floor. A big man sitting there, tall and wide, looking like some great ape stuffed into a chair for a toddler. “Hi honey, how was work today?”
She rolled her eyes and hung her bag from a hook on the back of her door, then brushed past him on her way to her cluttered desk. “Don’t you have that double to worry about? My mom saw it in the paper and asked if I was working with you.”
“Tell Momma I’m all full up, assistant-wise. But if she wants to send some oysters over, maybe that’ll change my mind.” He opened his hands in a gesture that meant he was open to anything.
“I’ll pass.” Jean took off her jacket and sat, then waited for whatever was coming.
“I’ll fill you in on the strategy tomorrow. I just wanted to stop in, see how you were doing with the Adelfi thing.”
“Looking over my shoulder?” Jean glared at him, resenting his inquiry and resenting it more so because she might actually need the help. That wasn’t something she wanted to admit to Eason, not ever. She was capable and she didn’t need help. She was a fighter. She was a warrior.
I am a badass bitch.
“I know, I should let my baby out of the nest, let you spread your wings and soar. But I’m like one of those helicopter parents. Can’t help myself. It’s a flaw.” But he was grinning. “What did Juanita say about your case?”
That gave her pause. She laid her hands on her keyboard, feeling the cool plastic.
“You know, she told me about your meeting tomorrow. And she asked about the Robinson thing, and the Mulraney case.”
“Mulraney case?”
“Simple possession, nothing eye-catching.”
“And what did she say about the Adelfi thing?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? She asks about a drug possession and the Robinson thing, which I know is done, game, set, and match. But the day the DA goes to the mattresses against you, she doesn’t ask about your first murder?”
“No.” Jean began opening files on her computer, looking for her Adelfi notes.
Eason dug his fingers into his goatee and stared out of her window, taking in the alley and the parking garage.
After a moment he said, “A reporter at the Picayune called me up to ask about it. He was trying to call it the Valentine’s Day murder.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. Don’t worry, I don’t think it’s going to stick. It’s not flashy enough for the papers to hang on to for long.” Eason fixed her with a green eye. “But everyone loves a lover’s spat. Papers. The public. Even the DA. Go over there with an offer, maybe she takes a plea.”
“Self-defense?”
“Or negligent homicide. I could see that.”
“She says she never fired the gun.”
Eason nodded slowly. Jean knew this was a weak argument. Most of the clients they represented claimed they never fired the gun, or never touched that car, or had never seen that bag of marijuana or cocaine and had no idea how it wound up in their possession. He said, “Then you go to trial and get your ass handed to you. No. Trust me, the boss doesn’t want to take the ‘L’. She doesn’t want to pour time and money into a trial you’ll lose.”
Jean felt her face getting hot. Had they been discussing her case behind her back? Looking over her shoulder? “She told you?”
“No. She just told you that. This is me just deciphering Juanita-speak, now. But I’m right. The case is a loser and she knows it. She’s telling you without telling you. Adelfi is your client, sure, represent your client, but you’ve got more coming in every day. And double that on Mondays.”
“I’m not taking a plea. I’ve got an interesting angle that I’m working .” Jean kicked off her pumps and flexed her toes in her stockings.
“Work your angle. Nobody is saying you shouldn’t work your angle. But you’ve still got court in the morning and fresh cases on the way, every day.”
“One of the arresting officers has a string of brutality-”
Eason waved this off. “He showed up after the fact.” After the murder, he meant.
“Wait, wait. He’s got the brutality complaints. That’s one. And the guy mentioned in the sworn affidavit that says Sofia wanted to kill her husband, he was the detective involved in the Huey P. shooting a few years ago. The one after the storm.”
Eason thought about that, then shook his head. “I don’t follow. These are disparate facts. No thread there. Maybe you get the Huey P. cop on the stand and destroy his credibility. Maybe you don’t. When you have a body, a gun, and a shooter all in the same room the jury isn’t going to care about a cop’s shady past. They just aren’t.”
Jean sighed. When he said it loud back to her, she realized how stupid it all sounded.
“I’ll find something.” She saw an opening. She went for it. “I need a seasoned investigator to help with this. Patton’s a good kid, but he’s a year in. I want somebody with talent. Nadine.” Nadine Ortego was a fifty-eight-year-old Gin-Rummy powerhouse who was probably the best investigator in the building, if not the city. She had been in the Public Defender Private Investigation Division for longer than most of the attorneys and she was easily the most coveted of all investigators.
Eason barked out laughter. “Not a snowball’s chance in hell. Nadine is mine.”
“I need her.”
“I’ve got a double homicide, that beats your single. Patton’s yours.”
“He’s a kid.”
Eason rolled his eyes and stood. “And even the kid is going to tell you that your crooked cop defense isn’t gonna hold water. But you know that. Your best bet is the obvious one: crime of passion. Cheating husband. Self-defense, maybe. Get the conversation with that detective, Connelly, tossed as circumstantial. Which you should have done day one, by the way. And then convince your client to take a plea. She does time, but she’s not in for life. Might be that she gets ten years, out in seven .” He began tucking in his shirt. “I’ve got to get to court. We can talk about this later, if you want. But remember, the longer you spend on this case, the less time you have for others. And we got more cases coming in every day.”
Sofia Adelfi looked good. Not woman-on-the-street good, but jail good. Some new inmates retreated from themselves when they were behind bars. They neglected basic hygiene. They stopped washing their hair, brushing their teeth. Some didn’t even shower. Sofia Adelfi looked as put-together as she could, under the circumstances.
Jean had requested the interview and was granted permission to see her client, then she drove the few blocks to Templeman V, which housed all women, regardless of charge or what phase their case was in. She hadn’t seen Sofia since that first time in court, in that plastic box. Now she sat across from Sofia in another box, though this was metal and glass. At least there was no scarred plastic divider between them this time.
“Good morning.” When Jean smiled at her, Sofia even smiled back. “How are you
?”
Sofia shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Are you eating?” That was another problem with first-timers.
Sofia wrinkled her nose and made a sound.
“I’ve heard, I’ve heard. But remember, you need to take care of yourself. Is there anybody I can contact for you? Someone to put money in your commissary account?”
She shrugged again. So Sofia wasn’t going to be helpful this time, either. Jean decided to cut to the chase.
“The DA brought charges against you. First Degree Murder, do you understand?”
“I am not a killer,” Sofia spat out. She leaned forward and poked the tabletop with her index finger. “I did not touch the gun.” She over-pronounced the words, making sure she would be understood.
Jean nodded. The next part was difficult for many clients to understand. They didn’t want to hear about doing time or cutting deals. Sometimes Jean thought the words “don’t shoot the messenger” should be somewhere in the official motto of the Public Defenders.
Jean said, “There’s a chance at a plea. Reduced time.”
“I did not touch the gun! I did not kill.” Sofia’s lilting accent barged through now, her anger scraping the polish from her English.
“I’m just presenting you with options, okay? First Degree is very serious. They could go for the death penalty. I don’t think the DA will, but they could. However, if they accept that you fired in self-defense-”
“No.” The woman crossed her arms and shook her head vigorously. “I will not claim to do this. I will not have people thinking I did this.”
“Alright.” Jean sighed and opened her notes.
“I did not do this.”
“I have a duty to let you know.”
Jean agreed to drop it, and they went over Sofia’s last day as a free woman. She watched TV. Any Valentine’s Day plans? No, Ernie would be working. They didn’t celebrate that sort of thing, anyway. She went to yoga. Got a coffee. She came home. And Ernie says he’s going to take a nap before he goes into the restaurant. She made herself a light dinner.
“And did you have any alcohol?”
“I drink some wine, yes.”
Wine. She falls asleep on the couch, she says. Then she wakes up to the police standing over her.
Jean wrote all of this down. She was still writing when she said, as casually as possible, “And how do you know Tom Connelly?”
“Canelli?”
“Connelly. Tom. How did you two meet?”
Sofia made a face. She raised her hands, palms-up. “I don’t know this name.”
“You don’t know him?”
“No.” Her voice was firm. She was looking Jean dead in the eye. Telling the truth or lying and not giving a damn.
“Did you go to the offices of a private detective on...Thursday, February 12?”
“A detective? A police?”
“No, a private investigator. This would be in an office in a strip mall.” She rattled off the address, but Sofia looked as clueless as ever.
“I don’t know this man.”
Jean set down her pen. That was interesting.
Jean was in her office, in stocking feet when she heard voices coming down the hall. She set aside her papers on the Kile Robinson case and poked her head out of her door.
Patton, the young investigator, was walking toward her office and talking to a man about six feet tall. He was lean with sandy hair and a face that looked like he had been in the sun too long, even though it was March. He was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. Not exactly dressed for a serious meeting. His whole look stood in stark contrast to Patton. The young investigator was dark where the man was pale. Patton was dressed in a somewhat eccentric fashion but he looked professional. The other man looked unkempt. Like he had just woken up.
Patton saw her and gestured to the man. “Jean, this is Tom Connelly.”
“Oh,” Jean said.
“This is Jeanette Perez, she’s Mrs. Adelfi’s attorney.”
The man put his hand out. Jean stared at it a moment, then she shook it. It was rough and dry.
“Mr. Connelly. Come on in.” Jean led the man into her office
CHAPTER NINE
Tom thought Patton was pulling his leg.
Even after the kid explained everything in the casino, Tom thought maybe he was an actor or a rookie cop sent by Joe Hanks or more likely Hanks’ asshole partner, Campbell, to mess with him. That would make sense. It was the first he was hearing of Hanks’ statement, of his name being brought up in connection with Sofia Adelfi and brought up in some official capacity. So even after Patton had explained it all, Tom made him run through it again, standing there in the rattle and ring of the gaming floor.
When Tom agreed to meet with Patton and his boss more or less officially the next day, he told himself it was just to wrap up the Adelfi thing. He was done with the P.I. business. And he had no desire to get involved with the Public Defenders Office. He had seen too many criminals leave Criminal District Court as free men and women courtesy of weaseling lawyers when they should have been cuffed and stuffed into a cell somewhere.
No, this was just a visit to satisfy his curiosity. He had cleaned out the office. He was done playing detective. But he could allow himself this moment of weakness. He would go down to Tulane Tower with Patton and see what they wanted and pry them for information. Because just maybe, in the back of his mind somewhere, Tom didn’t think that Sofia would kill anyone. Maybe this conversation would prove him wrong. That would feel like closure, he thought. That would be alright.
As long as he knew.
The next day Tom waited outside his empty office with a cooling cup of coffee. He was watching the parking lot and thinking that not too long ago, Sofia Adelfi herself had walked across the parking lot in the pouring rain and asked him to kill her husband. Sort of. She hadn’t meant it, though. Right?
Tom decided she wasn’t serious and watched a blue Jeep Cherokee pull into the parking lot. Patton waved at him from the driver’s seat. He had insisted that the kid pick him up at the office. He didn’t want Patton to know where he lived. Was that it? Or was it that he wanted Patton to think he was still working as a detective? Still had a toe in the investigatory waters, so to speak?
No, that couldn’t be it. Tom was done.
Patton drove them through the city, weaving through lunch hour traffic with practiced ease. WWOZ on the radio.
“Does this mean I have to take you back to your office?” Patton glanced at Tom. “Because I’ve got work to do this afternoon.”
“Y'all wanted to talk to me, the least you can do is chauffeur me around a little bit.”
“It’s not me, Jean wanted you to come in. I could have asked you a few questions right there in the casino last night.”
“I would have asked for your I.D. and kicked you out. I can spot a fake.”
“What’s fake?”
“Probably whatever I.D. you used to get into the casino last night. It’s from Wisconsin or something, right? When I was a rookie cop every fake I.D. seemed like it was from Wisconsin or Michigan, places like that.”
“I’m twenty-two.” Patton stepped on the gas and the Jeep lurched through an amber light and they crossed under the steady roar of an interstate overpass. Tom held his coffee up, trying his best to mimic a gyroscope and keep from spilling the stuff all over the Jeep’s floor.
“Well, you look like a High School sophomore, even with the beard.”
“Well, I got my bachelor’s in Law and Ethics from LSU,” Patton said, mimicking Tom’s cadence. “Even with the beard.”
“You graduate yesterday?” He peered at the kid, knowing he was getting under his skin and having a good time doing it.
Patton hunched down and glowered over the steering wheel.
“Oh. Shit. Close to home,” Tom grinned and leaned back in his chair. “Let me guess, December graduation? And it’s just barely March.”
“I did my hours in college. Got sponsored by the
Defenders and got my license. And I’ve been a Public Defender Private Investigator, working cases, ever since graduation. And it’s been a lot of cases.”
“That’s the spirit. Two, three months on the job. You’re practically a pro.”
Patton said nothing.
Tom dug in. “Hotshot LSU graduate. Look out, we got a genuine veteran on the case.”
Tom saw Patton’s eye twitch, but again, the young man said nothing.
An old Doctor John song came through the speakers and Tom turned the radio up. Patton nearly snarled at him, but Tom just grinned back. He tapped the rhythm out on his knee and resisted the urge to sing along.
Now, Tom stood in a hallway in Tulane Tower and tried to remember if he had ever been in the building before. He certainly couldn’t remember ever being in the Public Defenders Office when he was on the force. He had never once cavorted with the enemy. Joe Hanks wouldn’t have allowed that.
The woman who Patton introduced as Jeanette Perez was younger, but not as young as Patton. Patton hadn’t liked Tom from the start, that was obvious and Tom didn’t mind. Jean, on the other hand, just seemed curious. As she led them into her office Tom saw she was barefoot. Well, he was sort of curious now, too.
Tom sat at an empty desk and Patton closed the door and leaned against the wall. The office was smaller than he expected it to be. There were a few photos over Jean’s desk, including a faded color picture of a young couple in front of a seafood restaurant. One wall was dominated by a huge wall calendar and a whiteboard covered with yellow post-it notes. No trinkets, everything organized. This was a place for work, it seemed. Tom liked that.
