by Paul Levine
I was beginning to like this magistrate judge even more. She was cutting through the bullshit.
The prosecutor sighed. “Judge, I’m on a short leash here.”
The judge turned to me. “Translation, Mr. Lassiter. The government is playing hardball, and Ms. Bolden has limited authority.”
“I got that, Your Honor.”
“Margaret, here’s the way I see it,” the magistrate said. “The government did a deal with the mastermind of this scheme, so he’s getting leniency and a pat on the back for helping make your cases.”
“He’s forfeiting millions of dollars, Your Honor. And I’m sure he’ll do significant prison time.”
“Sure, sure,” the magistrate said. “And his clients, the parents, are pleading guilty, and they’re gonna get slaps on the wrists, maybe a few months at one Club Fed or another. Same with the proctors and coaches. Which leaves you with this baby-faced kid you want me to think is some international criminal on the run.”
“Max Ringle couldn’t have pulled this off without this co-conspirator.”
“I saw your boss’s press conference,” the magistrate continued. “He said the government had more than 200 agents and lawyers and investigators working this case. Meaning you need at least one trial and one long sentence to justify the millions of dollars that went into this, which after all, is about some kids cheating to get into college. So, be as tough as you want when you get to trial, but we both know that the Eighth Amendment and Supreme Court precedent require bail, so what are we gonna do here?”
Wow. If I weren’t engaged to Melissa Gold, I might have asked Selena Vazquez to marry me.
“As I said, Your Honor,” Margaret Bolden repeated softly, “I’m on a short leash.”
“Then let’s get a bigger dog!” I blurted out, frustrated by Bolden’s only-following-orders tactic. “Get the U.S. Attorney in here to make his case for pretrial detention. And if Juan Lucayo says he’s on a short leash, let’s bring down the Attorney General from Washington.”
Judge Vazquez smiled at me. “You catch on quick, Mr. Lassiter. Margaret, should we recess for half an hour to get your boss over here? Would Mr. Lucayo like to share his thoughts with us?”
“I think he would be quite irked.” She thought things over for a moment and said, “Upon further reflection, the government would not be opposed to a hundred-thousand dollar corporate surety bond, coupled with the surrender of the defendant’s passport and the freezing of the Cayman account.”
“Sounds reasonable,” I said.
“Done,” pronounced the judge.
I exhaled a long breath, like air whooshing from a punctured tire, as the tension flowed from me. I turned toward the defense table and winked at Kip. He’d be sleeping at my house tonight. While we waited for the court stenographer to appear so we could put the terms of pretrial release on the record, I said to the magistrate. “Judge Vazquez, any chance you can hear the case-in-chief?”
She chuckled. “I’m afraid you’ll get a lifetime appointee for that. Margaret, whose division caught the trial?”
“Judge Speidel, Your Honor.”
“Ay, Dios!” the magistrate exclaimed. “Lionel Speidel.”
I waited for more.
“Well, Mr. Lassiter,” she continued. “I wish you and your client good luck. And fasten your seat belt. It’s going to be a bumpy trial.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Quest for Integrity
I had the top down on the Eldorado convertible as we swung onto the I-95 ramp, heading south toward Coconut Grove. The sun beat down mercilessly, but the rush of air, even humid Florida air, felt cleansing after a morning in court. When your client faces decades in prison, the handsome federal courthouse feels just as oppressive as the county lockup with its rank odors of a faulty latrine.
The massive bench seat of the old Eldo was red velour, suitable for 1980s Cadillacs and 1880s New Orleans brothels. Kip was slouched into the soft fabric, eyes closed. When he’d moved to his Brickell Avenue apartment, he’d left some clothes he hated at my house, so I’d brought to court an old pair of canvas shorts and a Biscayne-Tuttle debate team T-shirt. Dorky, maybe, but compared to the orange jumpsuit, these were designer duds. I shot a glance at him. With his face in repose, Kip looked a 15-year-old, innocent and untouched by the world, which was pretty much the opposite of real life.
“It will be great to have you home, kiddo,” I said. “I’m grilling some porterhouses tonight.
Kip opened his eyes. “Getting indicted didn’t convert me into a carnivore.”
“No worries. Melissa is making that fancy salad you love, the one with fennel and tangerine slices. Plus, something called creamy mushroom kale risotto, which I guarantee you no one on death row ever chose for a last meal.”
“That’ll be great.” He did not sound enthusiastic.
“What is it, Kip?”
“I’m scared, Uncle Jake.”
“It’s gonna be okay, Kippers. I’ve got you.”
His voice was barely a whisper above the wind. “I’m really, really, really sorry.”
“I know you are.”
“For letting you down, I mean. You’ve given me so much. I know how angry and disappointed you must be. That’s what I thought about when they hauled my ass across the country. How much of yourself you put into raising me and how ungrateful I’ve been and how shitty I’ve treated you this last year.”
His words moved me. I’d been hoping for his humanity to appear. His vision of the world had been blinded by the glint of fool’s gold. His best qualities—compassion and empathy and honesty—had been buried under all that cashmere and cash.
“I’m glad you’re digging deep,” I said. “Self-knowledge doesn’t come easy.”
“You can say it now, Uncle Jake.”
“Say what?”
“‘I told you so.’ You can say it. I deserve it.”
“Aw, what good would that do? We’ve got to look ahead. Prepare for trial.”
“But you were right. About Max double-crossing me. About the trouble I was in. I expect a lecture.”
“I’ve never lectured a client. Not part of my job description.”
“How about as my . . .” He thought a moment before saying, “As my dad. How about that job description?”
A warm flood of emotion surged through me. How I had longed for him to say that.
“My dad.”
I gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Being your dad is my favorite job.”
“Great. But I think I still gotta call you ‘Uncle Jake.’ Otherwise, it’s a little weird.”
“Not a problem. Here’s my very simple lecture. You forgot one of Granny’s rules. ‘If you live for money, there will never be enough, and the pursuit will kill you.’”
“I get that, Uncle Jake, but I wasn’t doing it for the money.”
“Cashmere hoodies, then. It’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s hard to explain, but the money and material things were only . . . I don’t know, the meringue on top the tres leches. Does that make sense?”
“What’s underneath? What’s the cake you hungered for?”
“The thrill. The action. Feeling juiced walking into a testing center as an imposter. Risking getting busted and then, under pressure, nailing any score I wanted.”
I thought about it as traffic backed up where I-95 pours into U.S.1, known not so fondly as Useless 1. “We need to find something else that juices you. Something productive and legal.”
“A new path in life. I get that.”
“If we beat this thing, you can become the hero of your own story of redemption.”
He thought that over for a moment and replied, “Like a hero in Greek mythology.”
“Like Hercules. Believe it or not, I took a course in mythology at Penn State.”
“Really? It doesn’t sound like you.”
“My mistake. I thought the course guide said ‘mixology,’ you know, a bartending course.”
<
br /> “In mythology,” Kip said, “before the hero goes on his quest, he meets with his mentor who teaches him how to achieve his quest.”
“Obi-Wan Kenobi in Star Wars.”
“Yep. And you’re my mentor. I need you to teach me how to seize the sword or find the magic potion or whatever. And I’ll listen this time, I promise. I just don’t yet know what the quest is.”
I reached over and tousled his mop of hair, just like I did when he was ten years old. “We’ll work on it together.”
We were stopped at the traffic light at Douglas Road, ready to hang a left into Coconut Grove. My cell rang with an 805 number, and I answered with an inquisitive “Hello?”
“Is the creeper there?”
I recognized the shrill voice. Shari Ringle of the gold thong bikini and midnight-blue toenails, and yes, her breasts in my bed at the Miramar hotel.
“He can’t talk to you, Shari. He’s finished being recorded by the Ringles.”
“I’m not recording! And he doesn’t have to talk. Just put it on speaker.”
I pressed my index finger to my lips, instructing Kip not to say a word, and clicked the speaker button.
“Are you there, Kip?”
“He’s listening,” I said.
“You ruined my life! U.S.C. kicked me out.”
“I thought you hated college,” I said.
“Hated classes, loved the parties. And that’s not the point. Aroma-dot-com cancelled sponsorship of my blog and discontinued my line of perfumes, ‘Utopia by Shari.’ NoBurn ditched my vlog, and I was supposed to get a reality show called ‘Woke and Spoke,’ and now everything’s gone.”
Kip’s lips moved a millimeter, and I knew he was going to say, “I’m sorry,” but I clamped a mitt over his mouth to keep him quiet.
“Is that it, Shari?” I asked.
“Kip, I hope you rot in prison, you dipdo fricker. You ruined everything! My life is shit!”
“Have a nice day,” I said, clicking off.
“Aw, jeez,” Kip groaned. “She’s really mad at me.”
“Dammit, don’t you start feeling sorry for Shari Ringle. She’s going home to her mansion with an ocean view, and you’re going to trial in federal court. You’re the one who the government wants to pay for all the sins of the parents, the kids, the coaches, everybody. Even Max Ringle is getting a break. Before you can go on that hero’s quest, we have to beat all of them. You understand that, right?”
“I guess.”
From Douglas, I turned right onto Kumquat, coming to a stop to let three peacocks cross the street in their slow, waddling, don’t-give-a-damn manner.
Kip seemed to be in deep thought. Then he said, “Integrity.”
“How’s that?”
“Integrity. That’s my quest. To be a good person. An honest person. Not to hurt anyone but to help other people. Is that okay? Or is it too vague?”
“No, it’s dead-solid perfect.”
The peacocks disappeared behind a bougainvillea bush, and I eased the old Caddy to the front of my little coral rock pillbox of a house. I handed Kip my cell phone, and said, “Google something before we go in.”
He gave me a puzzled look but sat there, waiting for instructions.
“Plug in the name ‘John D. MacDonald,’” I said.
“Your favorite Florida author.”
“Yeah, and type ‘Travis McGee and integrity.’”
His thumbs were a blur of motion, as any eGames aficionado would be.
“A quote came up from The Turquoise Lament,” Kip said.
“That’s it. Read it aloud. You need to hear it, and I need a refresher course.”
“‘Maybe all you ever get for integrity is the largest kick in the ass the world can provide,’” Kip read aloud. “‘Crime pays a lot better. I can bend my own rules way, way over, but there is a place where I finally stop bending them.’”
He handed me back the phone and said, “I get it, Uncle Jake. It’s harder to live with integrity, and maybe there are gray areas, but there’s a line you just can’t cross.”
“I try to live by those words,” I said. “I’m not seeking perfection, but integrity requires that the good I do must outweigh the bad. That’s why I’ve always done pro bono work for poor clients. It’s why I’ve mentored junior high kids in Liberty City and lectured in high schools and worked as a volunteer coach for Pop Warner football.”
“That slays,” he said. “You’re my role model, Uncle Jake. I want to be like you.”
“Great. Now, let’s go in. Melissa is dying to see you, and I’m hungry as hell.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Child Emperor
When we walked into the house, Melissa hugged Kip so tightly and so long his face started to turn blue. “I’ve been so worried about you,” she said.
“I’m sorry, Melissa. I really screwed up.”
“Hush now and go clean up.”
Kip and I both laughed.
“What?” she asked, befuddled.
“You tell her,” I said.
“That’s what Granny always said when I came in the house. ‘Hush now and go clean up.’”
“Mel, Granny rubbed off on you,” I added, and the three of us spent a quiet moment thinking about her, gone now the last ten months.
Kip scooted to the shower. Melissa checked on three giant Idaho potatoes that were baking in the oven while I rubbed two nicely marbled porterhouses with salt, garlic, dried parsley, red pepper flakes, coriander seeds, and my secret ingredient, brown sugar. Maybe it was my imagination, but Kip seemed to look longingly at the steaks as he contemplated his creamy mushroom kale risotto.
An hour later, after we’d polished off the meal and a six-pack of Grolsch, saving the pecan pie for later, we were sitting on the back porch listening to the crickets. My cell phone rang nine or ten times before I turned it off. Journalists from around the country, all wanting to interview Kip, or in lieu of that improbability, me. I could see no advantage in our saying a word.
“I read the indictment,” Kip said.
I had the hint of a new headache brewing, but I was so damn happy to have Kip home that I dismissed the very notion of pain. “All 193 paragraphs?”
“Yeah. Every allegation is true. I did everything they say.” His voice low, his tone regretful. “But the funny thing is, I never really thought I was doing anything illegal. I’m not saying I thought it was okay. I just never thought about it in those terms. Legal. Illegal. Moral. Immoral. It was just . . . I don’t know . . . just fun.”
That stirred a memory. “At Ringle’s house, you said that taking the tests was like playing eGames again. The risk of getting caught taking the tests being like the risk of annihilation in the games. And in the car on the way here, you talked about how being an imposter got you juiced.”
That caught Melissa’s attention, as she poured each of us a shot of tequila. Don Julio 1942, the good stuff. “Is that right, Kip?”
“Both juice me, so yeah, that’s it.”
Melissa focused her greenish gold eyes on Kip, her voice sliding into physician mode. “Taking those tests gave you the dopamine rush you were missing once you stopped the eGames. You were addicted to the rush, not to Fortnite or whatever game you played.”
“Just like playing poker gave you a rush before you got busted with the rich kid’s credit card in Atlantic City,” I said.
Kip gave me a cross look, realizing I’d broken my promise to him about his gambling and credit card problem.
“Yeah, I told Melissa about Penn and Atlantic City, just like you told Ringle. The difference is that Melissa wants to help you, and Ringle used your addiction—”
“I wasn’t addicted!”
“Have it your way. Ringle used your hunger for that dopamine rush against you. There’s a pattern. You get juiced, you take risks. In the eGames, the risk is your fictional character gets killed. In real life, you get arrested and face decades in prison.”
I could tell Kip was process
ing something. After a moment, he said. “When the twins were chasing me through the Glades in their Maserati, I flashed back to Road Fury.”
“The road rage game,” I said. “I remember.”
“I’m not saying it was fun crashing, but . . . it’s hard to describe, the chase lit me up.”
Now I was the one with something to think about. “Kip, I want you to see that psychiatrist who helped you kick the eGames habit.”
“No way. I didn’t like him.”
“All right, there’s a new guy. Dr. Eisenberg. Treats adolescents. I met him in a Bar proceeding, and he’s pretty sharp.”
“No shrinks! I’m not gonna do it.”
I took a sip of the clear, clean, smooth tequila. I was frustrated and exhausted. If I were driving, I was about to change lanes from annoyance to anger. What the hell had happened? Our mutual quest and our cheery mood on the ride home seemed to have vanished into the evening breeze. Why couldn’t Kip see that once in a while, Uncle knows best?
Maybe this is what it means to be a dad. When you try to help a troubled child, he reflexively rears up like a wild stallion, kicking his hooves in your face.
“Kiddo, you admit you did everything they say you did. I’m flailing around looking for a defense. Let me see if an expert witness could be useful.”
“I’ll talk to Melissa.”
“I’m not a board-certified psychiatrist,” she said.
“But you’re a neurologist who knows more than any shrink about how the brain really works. I’ll talk to you. No one else.” He stated it firmly and with finality and the brusqueness of a spoiled kid.
I threw up my arms. “The child emperor has spoken.”
I felt the first stabs of the ice pick, a migraine, either from the alcohol or stress or the failing synapses in my wounded brain.
“Jake, what about it?” Melissa asked. “Could I testify?”
