A Case of Redemption (36 page)

The priest was flanked by two even older-looking African-American women, both of whom were crying, which led me to make the obvious assumption that they were relations of some sort. Next to them were men of about the same age, husbands, most likely.

Off to the side was Mercedes. A little girl was hiding between her legs. Brianna, I assumed. Seeing L.D.'s daughter brought an instant smile to my face, even as I recognized it was a misplaced emotion. There's nothing about a girl losing her father that's worth smiling about, but it felt like I was looking at L.D., just for a second.

On the opposite side from Mercedes stood Nuts, looking as defiant as the time I'd visited him in Brownsville. If he recognized me, he didn't show it.

I scanned the rest of the mourners. The only white face I saw
belonged to Matt Brooks. He was flanked by Jason Evans, his wardrobe-size chief of staff.

Brooks smiled at me when we made eye contact, that son of a bitch.

The priest delivered a short sermon in which he spoke about loving God even in times of grief. He referenced Brianna, saying that L.D. would live on through her.

“I did not know Calvin,” the old priest said, using L.D.'s real name, “and so it's appropriate that the man who knew him best say a few words.”

And with that, Matt Brooks stepped forward and began to speak.

“L.D., your family and friends are here today to say good-bye,” Brooks said as if he was speaking to the man and not to his mourners, “and while we all are saddened that your time on earth was much too short, we take comfort in the fact that through your music, you will truly be immortal, and someday your musical genius will be recognized.”

There was more, but I tuned it out after that. Instead, my mind swirled with the things I wanted to say to Brooks as soon as the service was over.

•   •   •

As a technical matter, the professional rules governing attorney conduct prohibit a lawyer from communicating with someone represented by counsel. And had L.D. been alive, and there was a chance gathering in which both Brooks and I were in attendance, I would not have spoken to him.

But now that L.D. was dead, I no longer had a client. Besides, I didn't see much chance of Brooks turning me in to the committee on professional responsibility. More to the point, I didn't much care.

“Mr. Brooks,” I called out in what I thought was my most serious voice.

He was shaking hands with the priest. Jason Evans stood beside
him, looking into the distance as if he were scouring for potential snipers.

“Dan,” Brooks said, walking toward me, Evans a step behind. “I thought we were on a first-name basis.”

I ignored his effort to invoke familiarity between us. “That was quite a performance,” I said.

“I don't know what you mean.”

“It's a rare man with balls so big that he'll eulogize a man he murdered.”

“Is that what you think you just heard?” Brooks's smile told me that he recognized it wasn't a denial.

“You knew that L.D. was going to testify,” I said. “That's why you had him killed.”

“Dan . . . I know you want me to be the villain of this story, but it's just not so. The truth is that getting killed in prison just isn't all that hard. Especially if you're a goddamn hothead, like L.D. You know, somebody killed Jeffrey Dahmer in prison, too. That doesn't mean he didn't eat all those people. The simple fact is that L.D.'s death had nothing to do with me. He got in the wrong guy's face, and he paid for it. Simple as that.”

He smiled again at me, and I would have punched that grin off his face but for the fact that Evans would have killed me and that, being this was a funeral, it was hardly the place. “It's not over,” I said.

“Yes, Dan, it is,” he replied.

Brooks pushed past me, and Evans followed, deliberately bumping me with his wide body. They walked down the hill to Brooks's waiting Bentley. Evans opened the back passenger door, and shut it behind Brooks. Then he walked around to the driver's side and they drove away.

T
he time just after trial has its own rhythm. Of course, its cadence will differ markedly based on whether you've won or lost.

At Taylor Beckett, a successful verdict always merited a weeklong series of high fives, and a lavish celebratory dinner with the trial team, which included anyone who billed a tenth of an hour to the case. Congratulatory emails would come from friends and firm elders, reporters would call for a pithy quote, and the firm's PR machine would place articles in legal journals touting your genius. And if all that weren't enough, you also had the undying love and admiration of your client.

Losing went the other way, but with ten times the force. Every judgment was called into question, and the firm treated you like something of a pariah, with the joke being that instead of paying millions of dollars for a Taylor Beckett defense, the client would have achieved the same result with a legal team comprised of monkeys. Worst of all, the client blamed you, and only you, for his plight, as if the conduct in which he'd engaged bore no relationship to the verdict.

Technically, the result here was a mistrial. The legal equivalent of a tie. But no loss ever felt as empty.

When I returned from the funeral, I called out Nina's name. Nothing.

For a moment I panicked, but then I saw a note on the dining room table. It was sitting on top of a Redweld filled with trial exhibits.

D—I headed home for a little bit. Need to see what my apartment looks like, pay bills, drop off dry-cleaning. The stuff I haven't done in forever. Be back soon.

Love you

—N.

I stared at the closing
Love you
. Nina loved me.

For the first time in a long time, I was again alone. It seemed reason enough to pour myself a scotch.

When I poured myself a second one, I decided that this was as good a time as any to purge my living space of L.D. The files covering my dining room table weren't going to go away by themselves, and as long as they were out, it was like L.D. was still here, too.

When a case ended at Taylor Beckett, a team of legal assistants cataloged all the documents and prepared an index so if the files were ever needed again they could be easily retrieved. Then the guys in the mailroom boxed everything up and sent them to one of the several off-site, long-term storage facilities the firm used. Before 9/11, the firm used one facility in New Jersey, but after the Trade Center attack, the firm spread out the files, just in case al-Qaeda decided to strike a warehouse in Weehawken next. I'd never had occasion to actually visit any of the storage facilities, but I'd been told they looked similar to the final scene of
Raiders of the Lost Ark
, nothing but aisles and aisles of identical boxes.

The process of closing a file at Sorensen and Harrington amounted to my throwing everything into a giant box. What I was going to do with the giant box after it was full was still undetermined.

First I threw the Redwelds and exhibit folders into the box without a second thought. Our case research—all the stuff about exclusion of evidence we'd gathered for the motion in limine—went in next. God, Nina had really done a lot of research on that, all for naught, of course.

When I grabbed the pathology report, I stopped short before
adding it to the heap. I sat down at the dining room table and started to flip through the pages. I suppose I wanted one last look at Roxanne before closing her up in the box.

The image of her vacant eyes in the autopsy photos was as haunting as ever. It occurred to me that L.D. was not the only person I'd failed in this case.

Underneath the forensic photos was the juvenile record for the other Nelson Patterson. The mug shot was staring up at me. I was about to toss it in with the rest when something occurred to me.

I couldn't believe it. I stared down at the photo of this fifteen-year-old Nelson Patterson.

Why hadn't I seen it before? But Nina and Kaplan had apparently missed it, too. And, of course, it wasn't something L.D. told us, although he undoubtedly knew as well. Ironically, it wasn't a lie that angered me. If anything, this lie made me proud of L.D.

•   •   •

I drove straight to Brownsville and headed directly for the Tilden Houses, building number three. The door was still propped open and the elevator still didn't work. The smell in the staircase hadn't improved either.

“Remember me?” I said when Nuts opened the door.

“Lawyer dude, right? Where's the hot chick?”

“Just me today.”

“Don't know why you here, but you better get to the point fast.”

“I know that you're the real Nelson Patterson,” I said in a flat but sure voice.

He hesitated for a moment, which I took to be a good sign. It meant I couldn't be that off base.

“Do you mind if I come in?” I said. “There are some things I need to talk to you about that require privacy.”

He didn't say anything, but when he stepped aside, I walked by him. Then he shut the door behind me, still without saying a word.

“How'd you find out?” he asked, all bravado vanished.

“The mug shot,” I said.

He laughed, a borderline maniacal cackle. “Shit. I figured all black guys look alike to white dudes.”

“After I saw you at the funeral this morning, I was putting away the file and I came upon the mug shot, and it clicked. But it's not the only picture of you that I have, Nelson.”

“Don't call me that.”

He said this with anger. For a moment I thought he might lash out, even before I got to the stuff that I thought might actually make him take a swing at me.

I slid the manila folder out of my coat pocket and handed it to him. “These were taken by Matt Brooks. Long lens, probably infrared.”

He opened the clasp, his hands moving almost in slow motion. I watched his eyes carefully, looking for any type of tell.

It was very minor, but he twitched at the first picture. It was the kind of reaction that would have been a full-fledged flinch but for my presence. He flipped through the last two, and when he was finished he let the subtlest smile slip through.

The smile gave it all away. He was pleased that his face wasn't visible.

“What the fuck do I care if L.D. liked to suck cock,” Nuts said.

“Not going to fly anymore, Nuts. I know.”

“Yeah? What the fuck you think you know?”

“Changing your name doesn't change the way things are.” I waited a beat. “I know that's you with L.D.”

“Like fuck it is.”

He took a step toward me. At that moment it occurred to me how ill conceived my plan had been. No one even knew I was here.

He pushed me against the wall. His massive forearm was under my chin, pressing against my throat.

“Hold on. I'm not the enemy here.”

He pushed in even tighter, and I could feel his weight against me, my throat even more constricted. He snarled, spraying spit in my face.

“I'm pretty much your best friend right now,” I managed to squeeze out.

“How you figure,” he said, spitting as much as speaking.

“The way I see it, the best thing you got going for you is that, right now, I know you and L.D. were lovers, but Matt Brooks doesn't.”

There was a momentary standoff. I could almost see the wheels turning inside Nuts's head. How sure was I that it was him in the photos? Would I really tell Brooks? And if I did, what would Brooks do?

The increased pressure on my larynx made me realize that he might just conclude that the safest out for him was to eliminate that possibility by killing me right here.

“Brooks gave me these pictures,” I said, finding it difficult to speak with his forearm crushing against my windpipe. “It was his effort to convince L.D. not to testify. When L.D. wasn't persuaded, Brooks had him killed. What do you think will happen if I tell him that you were L.D.'s lover? You think he won't figure that you and L.D. shared secrets? Some pillow talk? And that means that he's coming for you next. You're just as much a threat to him as L.D.”

“That's reason enough for me to make sure you don't tell him.”

His forearm pressed harder against my throat.

“Back the fuck off me!” I barked. “You think my partner—the hot one—doesn't know I'm here? You think I didn't tell her to tell Matt Brooks and then the cops everything—in that order—if I don't call her in ten minutes?”

I pushed him hard. He felt like iron, and barely budged. But then, having nothing to do with my effort, he stepped back.

I swallowed a few times in rapid succession, and then rubbed my
throat. I could feel my heart rate begin to settle down, my fight-or-flight response returning to normal.

From the look in Nuts's eyes I could tell that he'd folded to my bluff. He wasn't going to attack me again.

“So what do you want?” he said in a defeated voice. “Money?”

“No, I don't want your money. I want your help. I want you to make things right.”

W
hen I got home, the apartment smelled like garlic. Nina was in the kitchen, wearing one of my old T-shirts and my blue sweats. Her hair was unruly, and she didn't have on any makeup, a look that led me to conclude that she hadn't yet showered. And wouldn't you know it, she looked spectacular.

“I'm making lasagna,” she said. “I knew today was going to be tough for you, and I was feeling a little guilty about bailing on you . . . so I figured that the least I could do was make you some comfort food for dinner.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Do you want some wine? I bought a nice bottle of Chianti.”

“Thanks, but do you mind if I pour myself a scotch?”

“You're back to that? I was kind of hoping I'd weaned you off the hard stuff.”

“Like you said, today was kind of a tough day.”