Almost Mortal

by Chris Leibig

  “Shit, Michael. You mean he asked for me by name? Look, I don’t know the dude. Send someone else.”

  Simmons sighed. Sam could almost see him opening his next file over the conversation.

  “Listen, Sam, I give you as much deference as I can, but some decisions are above your pay grade. It’s gonna be you. And by the way, we got this kid from NYU Law hanging out all day with nothing to do. He came here to work with you this summer, remember? He’s kind of pissed off. Bored. Can you do something about that?”

  Sam felt a wince of guilt. Marvin, or Marlin, or whatever his name was. Sam had been too busy to give the guy any assignments.

  “Got it.” He hung up and glanced down the long hallway towards the courtroom, towards Sparf. This job was so funny sometimes. The utter silliness of the law. Just because Hogman smeared shit all over his cell did not, legally, mean that he was unable to comprehend the nature of the charges against him and assist in his defense. The behavior may be a perfectly rational reaction to his situation. His phone buzzed.

  “Sam, guess what?” He could hear the excitement in Juliana’s voice. “There’s been a development.”

  Sam turned and looked back down the hallway. Sparf stood alone with his stack of files as if he had finished telling all the defense attorneys to screw off and was getting ready to go into the courtroom.

  “I have something for you, too, Juliana. Can’t talk now. Meet later?”

  She hesitated. “Might be working late.”

  “Can I come over later?”

  “Ten. And Sam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You have something on the Ripper?”

  “Let’s talk later.”

  Sam hung up, his mind balancing the issue of how much of the Andrada issue he should share with Juliana. She was, at the end of the day, sort of a cop. He walked slowly back towards the courtroom, scribbling a note on a legal pad. His lone footsteps echoed in the now-empty marble corridor. The judge was already on the bench, but Sam walked straight down the aisle and into the well, tossed the note on the table in front of Sparf, and casually walked to the back of the courtroom to sit in the far corner by himself. He pulled out a draft of an appeal brief and focused, zooming in on the supporting legal theory. As always, his physical and mental exhaustion gave way to concentration. The people around him, the courtroom, the judge, Chad’s arguments against bail for all the locked-up defendants, faded. Hard and clear. His mind sharpened itself on the brief. Hard and clear.

  Sam broke out of his zone when Chad touched him on the shoulder and nodded towards the door. The courtroom was almost empty now, and a different prosecutor was handling the last bond motions. The last besides Sherita’s.

  Chad walked and spoke quickly, an intentional display of hardhearted confidence many prosecutors affected while handling routine dockets like arraignments and bond motions. I don’t fall for sob stories. They’re all guilty as hell. Next. Next. Next. When Sparf walked inside the witness room, Sam’s certainty that he had read him right jumped from 90 to 100 percent.

  “If your knucklehead pleads guilty today, and I mean right now, she can plead to possession, thirty days to serve, probation with drug testing. And she’d better not balk on it in court or come back in to withdraw it later. Case closed today.”

  Chad’s tight face and rigid posture didn’t exactly reflect the tough-guy image he thought it did. Chad had retreated to a face-saving position of demanding something they both knew was no demand at all. Sherita would be falling all over herself to take the thirty-day plea. Sam fed the beast.

  “Today? That might be a hard sell, Chad. She just expects a bond motion. You have no lab results, and—”

  “Today. Or no deal, and I argue against bond. I’ll win it, too. A distribution charge? With her record? I know you guys all come in here asking me to buy into your bullshit stories because that’s your job, but seriously, it gets old from where I stand. ‘She made a mistake.’ ‘She’s got a kid.’ ‘She didn’t understand.’ ‘She didn’t know,’” Sparf said in a poorly acted whiny voice. So much like the younger Sparf would have spoken.

  “If there’s one thing a few years in this business has taught me, it’s that people fucking well know what they’re doing. They all know. Every one of them. So take it or leave it.”

  “Okay. You got a deal.”

  “And you should know, the FBI called today. They wanted to charge Sherita federally. To make her into a snitch. Agent Diggens. Acted like a real jerk, like I had to do whatever he said. I told him to shove it.”

  “Thanks, Chad. But why do that for her? I thought your boss had a policy to always defer to federal prosecution.”

  “Who cares why? I did it. It’s over.”

  “Because sometimes I’m just curious.”

  Sparf looked down, either searching himself for the answer or for whether to tell it to Sam. “Because fuck the feds.”

  As Sparf turned to leave, his head snapped back in Sam’s direction as if to blurt out an afterthought, a forgotten dreg of unimportance.

  “By the way, very funny, dude.” He tossed the note on the table and left.

  Sam picked up his note and read it again. Plea to possession. 30 days. Drug testing. And by the way, fuck you, Sparf.

  “Fuck the feds,” Sam said to himself. So Sparf didn’t like being told what to do. Not even by the FBI. And what was more, Sparf held his own boss’s authority in less than perfect regard. It made sense. It fit Sparf’s psyche. The Bennet County Commonwealth’s attorney was, after all, a politician. Just another superficial, popular kid. Good to know.

  •••

  “Camille, the phone records?” Phone in hand, Sam walked briskly in the thick humidity towards his office.

  “Soon. When can we meet? Also, I received another manuscript entry. I need you to see it.”

  “You did?”

  “We did.”

  Sam scanned his calendar in his head. He had the routine jail first appearances at two. New cases. New public defender clients advised of their rights through a closed-circuit video system, with the judge and the prosecutor at the courthouse and the defense attorney and client at the jail. It could take ten minutes or three hours, depending on the number of new arrests. He also had to deal with the new client, the nut job, Hogman. Then the DNA lab. Then Juliana.

  “I should be able to meet. Eleven at the church?”

  “Eleven at your place. And Sam?”

  “Yes, Camille?”

  “Don’t forget to eat again today. It’s bad for you.” Her tone was businesslike, yet mothering. The personal nature of the comment caught Sam off guard. Eleven o’clock meetings? Reminding him to eat? She was getting to know him.

  Sam kept walking and dialed Steve Buterab’s number. It did not surprise him when Steve knew it was him. Gamblers. They were good like that.

  “Samson, Mr. Las Vegas. So, you too good for us now? You haven’t been at the game in months.” Steve sounded friendly, glad to hear from an old friend. Steve, who had attended a prep school in New York, then Cornell, still spoke like a fast-talking con artist when it suited him. A second-generation grifter and son of the just-short-of-famous Raj Buterab, Steve struck Sam as a decent guy struggling to figure out who he was supposed to be—a gambler, a shady importer-exporter to and from Eastern Europe, a pot dealer, an Ivy Leaguer, or something completely different. Steve had to wonder where he fit.

  “Ahh, kidding man. So you in for Thursday? It’s bigger now. Almost in your league. Five is the buy in.”

  Steve’s weekly high-dollar poker game took place at his warehouse in South Bennet. Purportedly a moving and storage company, it was a huge space with multiple bays that Sam always envisioned serving as a base for all kinds of local criminality. But on poker nights, the warehouse was empty but for the round table in the middle, where local lowbrow big shots wagered up to five thousand dollars a hand while Steve and his crew served cheap food and drinks.

  “You cutthroats can take me any day. But
hey, Steve, I got a favor to ask. Not about poker.”

  “You ask, you got. I know you’re busy, bro. Me too. What’s the favor? No need to make small talk with me.”

  Sam mentioned Dr. Torres and the debt. Silence followed. A long one. Steve finally spoke when Sam turned the corner and his office came into view.

  “I’ll tell you what, Sam. Since you asked, I’ll look into it.” The joviality, however, had left Steve’s voice.

  “Thanks, Steve. Really, thanks.”

  “No promises. I just said I’d look into it.”

  Steve hung up. He did not re-extend the invitation to the poker game. Sam should have met with Steve in person about Torres. Experience told him that people’s desire to help him went way up when he asked face to face. Especially with Steve, who’d been calculating angles since he was in the crib just to keep up with his old man.

  Feet still moving fast towards his office, Sam pocketed his phone. A young Asian man leaned against the wall next to the door of his building, rapidly texting with both thumbs. Sam immediately recognized the moussed-up spiky hair and the skulking demeanor of Nguyen Jones and indulged in the hope that Nguyen wouldn’t notice him. Nguyen looked up, eyes alight, as if surprised by an old friend. Sam kept moving forward.

  “What are you doing here?” Sam asked when Nguyen stepped into his path and could thus no longer be ignored.

  “Looking for you, buddy.”

  “That scares me. Why?”

  “I need your help. To get my record sponged.”

  Sam shook his head. “I don’t like you and the word ‘sponge’ being used in the same sentence.”

  “You know, when you get your record erased. I was found not guilty, right?”

  “If you want to get your arrest record expunged, Nguyen, do it. You don’t need me for that. Go to the clerk’s office window. They’ll tell you what to do.”

  “Call me Skipper, buddy. You know that.”

  “I’m not calling you Skipper. We’re not friends. I’m really busy.”

  Nguyen launched into a rapid explanation of how important it was that he get his arrest record expunged. Sam zoned out and pictured Nguyen on the witness stand last year. A computer genius, Nguyen had served, against Sam’s advice, as his own expert witness, captivating the jury with his vast knowledge of computer forensics while explaining how he had no clue how his computer had downloaded hundreds of images of prepubescent child pornography. It had been an impressive feat of obfuscation. The frustrated prosecutor hadn’t been able to put a dent in Nguyen’s story, and the jury had found him not guilty in ten minutes. Of all Sam’s cases, the murders and rapes and molestations, Nguyen’s horrifying photographs of children being raped and sodomized had rendered him his least-favorite client ever.

  “I’m telling you, buddy, I got a chance for a tech contract with Homeland Security, and they’re about to do the background check. I need the shit sponged. This job could be serious money.”

  “Nguyen, if you get a contract with the Department of Homeland Security, there’s something seriously wrong with this country.”

  Nguyen laughed. “No shit, buddy, you can say that again. Anyway, you gonna help me or what? I want you to get it sponged. Besides, with this new gig, I’m hooked up. I can afford you. Coins are gonna be shooting out of my ass by October, buddy.” Nguyen cranked his arm to mimic a slot machine. “Cha-ching!” He stuck his butt out to facilitate the ejection of imaginary coins.

  “I can only handle cases appointed to the public defender’s office.”

  “Stop pretending to be an asshole. Everybody knows you do side cases. What’s your problem?”

  Sam placed two fingers on his lips, as if to consider a difficult question.

  “Ten thousand.”

  “Whoa. That’s a lot for just going to the clerk’s window, eh?”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  Nguyen sighed. “Okay, buddy. And call me Skipper.”

  “I’m not your buddy, and I’m not calling you Skipper. In fact, if I were you, I’d stop going by Skipper.” Sam walked around Nguyen. “I’ll file the paperwork when I get the check.”

  “Sam!” Nguyen said it forcefully enough to cause Sam, grudgingly, to turn back around.

  “Why do you hate me? What have I ever done to you?”

  Sam just stared at him.

  “You know, you’re supposed to be this great defense attorney, believe in your clients and all that. In my case, you had two choices, both of which were possible. Either I was this pig who had pictures of babies being raped, or I was a normal guy who didn’t know those pictures were on my computer. It’s always bothered me that you chose the shitty, cynical option instead of believing I’m a decent person. You’re worse than the judge. You know what, Sam? Fuck you!” Nguyen raised his middle finger in the air, feigned jamming it into his own ass, and shoved it in Sam’s direction. “Get over yourself.”

  Sam turned and grabbed the door handle, remembering the day of Nguyen’s acquittal. Judge Bass had lectured him harshly, right in front of the jury that had just exonerated him.

  In my sixteen years on the bench I have never witnessed such a contrivance as you convincing this jury that those pictures magically appeared on your computer. You are a disgusting human being. I hope I get a chance to sentence you someday. But for now, you’re free to go, unfortunately.

  Sam had looked over at Nguyen as the judge spoke. Suddenly, he saw the moment in vivid, 3D-like detail. He did not see triumph in Nguyen. Nguyen had been a crushed person, delving as far inside himself as he could to escape the public nightmare. Sam shook his head, as if to break out of a trance. Sometimes his little hangovers were an epic journey.

  “Skipper!” Sam called out. Nguyen scuttled back towards him. “What if I did your expungement in exchange for some computer work?”

  “Now you’re speaking my language, buddy. Like what?”

  “Investigation. On some people. Deep, deep background checks. And you can’t get caught.”

  “Ah, man. I’m the best. I’m nutty.”

  Sam laughed. “I believe you on both of those things. But this is really sensitive.”

  “I’m your man. What’s it about?”

  “To start with, I want you to find out everything you can, without getting caught, about a nun named Camille Paradisi. Background, job history, education, where and when did she become a nun. Is she a nun? I want everything. This may require some legwork. I’ll email you what I have on Camille, and the rest of the project, later today.”

  “You got a birth date, anything like that?”

  “Not a birth date. She’s about thirty-five. I’ll send you what I got. It’s not much. Oh and hey, can your computer guys do handwriting analysis, like with a program or something?”

  “Huh?”

  “Take two writing samples and tell if they were written by the same person?”

  Nguyen shrugged. “If computer guys can do it, I can do it, pal. Bring it on. You got the samples?”

  “Right now, just one. I’m trying to figure it out.”

  “No problem, Sam, I got it. Can I ask what these projects are about?”

  Sam took a deep breath. “Have you heard of the Rosslyn Ripper?”

  Nguyen’s eyes grew wide. “This is making me hot.”

  “Stop saying things like that,” Sam said.

  •••

  “Sam, when you get a chance, I’d like to talk to you.” It was Amelia, speaking from the doorway of his office. Her slouched posture conveyed concern and a tepidness that surprised him, given her huge victory just the day before.

  He opened his e-mail and flipped through the stack of phone messages on his desk.

  “You worry too much. Relax. Enjoy it for a day.”

  “I know. It’s kind of a personal thing. When you have time? I know you’re busy.”

  “Sure. Tomorrow?” He glanced toward the pile of case files and notes on his desk. “And Amelia, you’re doing a great job. You’ve got to give yours
elf a break once in a while.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “SALIVA ON THE RIM of a metal cup,” Sam said into his office phone. The representative from Diagnostia would not quit asking questions.

  “Is that really necessary?” Sam asked. “It’s a private matter. I’ll drop it off today. How much for the expedited results?”

  •••

  The stuffy video room at the jail made Sam sweat through his dark suit. They made these places uncomfortable on purpose. The row of new arrestees, shackled, some in their orange jumpsuits, all speaking and gesturing at once, demanded his attention. Most of them, repeat customers, knew the video appearance was their first chance to be released pending trial and that every second counted to explain to Sam why they so desperately needed bail.

  “My job, my kids … I’ll lose my apartment … I didn’t do this shit.”

  Their stories were real, sometimes true, but all too often defeated by the standard prosecutor’s argument for high or no bail: the defendant should have thought about his or her job, kids, or apartment before committing the offense. So typical, and such bullshit. But as a former mentor of his often said, “Shit makes the world go round.”

  Sam always showed up at the jail advisements early, wanting to give each defendant enough time. To meet them. To make sure they did not say something stupid in the video. He brought one defendant at a time to the other side of the room, out of earshot of the others. An earnest but bored deputy leaned against the wall.

  The last defendant Sam spoke to was the least likely to be released. Cornelius Pritchard, nicknamed Acorn. While Sam had never personally represented Acorn, he did know some of his story. Domestic battery. Public intoxication. The petty stuff of an angry drunk unable to get it right his whole life. Now about forty years old, it was about time he grew up. This time he was charged with rape. Acorn, a tall, muscular man with intelligent eyes, a shaved head and crisply manicured goatee, did not look at all what his criminal resume would suggest. He always looked together. Now though, he was afraid.