Against the Wind (7 page)

“They were in town at the time it happened,” he says.

“Give me a break.”

“And according to Dr. Milton Grade, one of this country’s most eminent forensic pathologists …”

“I know Dr. Grade’s bona fides as well as you do,” I interrupt, impatiently.

“… this kind of ritual murder has strong homosexual overtones …”

“One guy cuts off another guy’s Johnson you could say there was sexual shenanigans involved, so what?” I say.

“… which has become characteristic of certain outlaw biker gang killings,” he finishes. “Grade’s come across it in some journals,” he adds.

I hear the first shoe dropping. Now I’ll be on edge until I hear the second, if there is one.

“Fine,” I tell him. “That still has nothing to do with this case. What else do you have? Anything that ties the victim to my clients?”

“Not yet,” he says evenly.

“Then where’s your case? Besides a general fear and loathing in the law enforcement community for these kind of people?”

“That’s part of it. Everyone hates scum like these,” Robertson says. “Including you. Even when you’re representing them.”

His phone rings. “This is Robertson.” He listens a moment. “Fine.” He hangs up. “Your clients are across the street.” Meaning back in jail.

“Are they under arrest?”

“Let’s say they’re under suspicion.”

“What for?”

“Aggravated murder and kidnapping.”

We both know what’s left unsaid: aggravated murder and kidnapping in this state carry the death penalty.

MY CLIENTS ARE OUTRAGED
and they’re not in the least bit trying to hide it. They haven’t been processed yet; it’s been less than thirty-six hours and they’re sitting across the jailhouse table from me again, this time dressed in their colors, which makes them especially fearsome. Lone Wolf leans towards me, his heavily-muscled arms crossed on the table. They’re covered with tattoos, elaborate snakes and hawks and hearts and daggers and blood and roses, all intertwined, a living populist art museum.

“What in the fuck is going on here?” That soft, whispery voice of Lone Wolf’s is ghost-like, in stark contrast to the gut-level savageness he physically projects.

“What kind of bullshit lawyer are you, Alexander?” he continues. The threat is palpable, I can feel its pulse: you took our money, you told us you were going to solve the problem. Now we’re back in here.

“You called me, ace, remember?” Fuck them, if they want another lawyer let them get one. I’ve got enough aggravation that I’ve got to take, the surplus I can do without.

He stares at me. They’re not used to being called out.

“Don’t get your bowels in an uproar,” he says. That sly grin peers out from behind his three-day growth. “We know you’re the best.” He leans back, withdrawing the menace. “Just tell us what’s going on.”

“What’ve they told you?”

“They didn’t tell us jackshit. They paraded in where we were eating, picked us up, told us if we didn’t voluntarily come in for more questioning they’d revoke our bond. Didn’t leave us much choice.”

“Made a big goddam scene about it,” a second one chimes in. His nom de guerre is Roach, he looks like Mick Jagger with a wine-colored birthmark the shape of Florida running up the right side of his neck to his eyebrow. “Scared the shit out of the civilians,” he adds, grinning. He also sports a star sapphire filling on his left eyetooth.

“They didn’t even let us finish our dinner,” the third one, aka Dutchboy, says. He’s huge, the baby of the group. Red hair in a bowl-cut and freckles: Huck Finn in your worst nightmare. “I’m still so hungry I could eat a virgin.”

They laugh; I smile along despite myself. Maybe it’s because I share their sentiments that they’re getting screwed.

“There’re your basic vending machines in the cellblock,” I tell them. “They’ll have to do ’till breakfast.”

Their faces cloud. This isn’t going to be easy, but easy’s no longer an option.

“There was a murder in the mountains north of here a few days ago,” I say. “They found the body yesterday.” I pause; there’s no reaction. That’s good.

“They’re holding you for it.” No point in pussyfooting around.

They stare at me, almost a classic group double-take.

“No fucking way.”

“You didn’t do it.”

“This is getting old, man.”

“I had to ask. I told you that. I always have to ask.”

“Okay. I hear you.” Lone Wolf’s calmer now, an act of will. “We didn’t do it, we don’t know anything about it. That is the truth, man, I swear to God.” He’s staring at me; they’re all staring at me, they don’t blink.

I look back at them. Not with as much intensity; you have to be somewhat crazy to have that kind of intensity. These men have it in spades. I don’t; I’m glad of that. I can feel the cherries, lemons, grapes, bells tumbling around in my head, the kind of internal slot-machine that plays inside a lawyer’s consciousness that comes together and tells him whether his clients are bullshitting him or being straight. There’s no immediate payoff this time. When they told me there was nothing to the armed robbery charge I believed them flat-out, but I’m not totally convinced about this one, there’s something nagging. I’m inclined to believe them, the absolute lack of recognition when I first brought it up can’t be faked, ninety-nine out of a hundred people would’ve revealed something; but they’re one-percenters, they survive by walking the tightrope. Maybe, even probably, they didn’t do it; but it’s the kind of barbaric act these men are certainly capable of.

But until they change their story, or a piece of evidence comes along that proves them liars, I’ll take them at their word. I have Dr. Grade’s report with me, I open it and follow it side-by-side as they recite their recollection of the events of the last few days, looking for discrepancies.

They’d been in town, they’d picked up some low-rent girl in a bar (willingly, they make sure I know that and believe it), okay so she was drunk but there was absolutely no coercion, there’s a couple hundred witnesses out there to that (Dutchboy luckily kept a book of matches from the bar, it’ll be the first thing I check out), they rode around a couple hours …

“Did you have intercourse with her?” I interrupt them.

“No, man, we sat around the campfire and read Rod McKuen. What do you think we are, faggots? ’Course we fucked her,” Lone Wolf tells me, almost with contempt. “If we don’t fuck ’em they ain’t worth fucking.”

“All of you?”

He looks around. “Anybody fake his orgasm?” They guffaw, a good belly laugh. “Yeh, man. We all fucked her.”

“Some better’n others,” Roach kicks in.

“You’re on my list,” Lone Wolf tells him, pointing a finger. I admire their composure; I don’t think I could be telling jokes with a murder charge hanging over me, even if I absolutely didn’t do it.

“You raped her.”

This is taking a wrong turn; this girl, whoever she is, definitely won’t be a witness for the defense. If I’m lucky she’ll never turn up.

“No rape,” Lone Wolf says emphatically. “She was hot to trot. Any of y’all hear any complaints?” he asks the others.

They all shake their heads.

“Hot for all of you? You’re positive? Because if she was madly in love with three of you but didn’t want the fourth,” I continue, “that is rape. Uncontestable.”

“She was more than willing,” Lone Wolf insists. “She never once asked us to stop.” He knows the jargon; he should, he’s been hearing it most of his life.

I ruminate on it. It’s a fine line; if an average citizen was on trial for that, he’d probably walk. There isn’t a jury in this country that wouldn’t convict these four.

We press on. They took the girl back to some motel in the low-rent section where she was staying (not far, I realize with chagrin, from where Patricia and Claudia live), then rode south to Albuquerque on New Mexico 14, the picturesque back road that goes through Madrid, an abandoned railroad and mining town that’s now a hippie-artist tourist attraction. They’d stopped on the way for gasoline, got to Madrid around seven in the morning. I quiz them on this; how sure are they about the time? They’re sure; they’d had to wait until seven-thirty to get breakfast, the only restaurant in town didn’t open until then. The waitress, who was also the cook, would remember them; she was a real character, she hadn’t been intimidated in the least, they’d traded insults all during the meal. They have a credit card receipt for the gasoline. Thank God for plastic, I think, pocketing the receipt: even society’s outcasts use it.

They tell me about their sojourn in Albuquerque. I get them to pass over it quickly: the details are boring, repetitive, childish, they remind me of bad fraternity weekends with a lot of blood and guts thrown in. But the good thing about the yarn they’re telling me, underneath all the junk, is that they were demonstrably with several hundred people, enough of whom can be compelled to testify on their behalf. In fact, virtually every minute of their time since they arrived in Santa Fe until their arrest down south is accounted for, and of greater importance, witnessed. The murder took time; the coroner’s report is explicit about that. If what they’re telling me is true, they were never alone long enough to have done it.

“They gonna set bail tomorrow morning?” Lone Wolf asks.

“And how much?” The fourth man, Goose, speaks for the first time. He’s older than the others, probably past forty, his beard and pony-tailed hair more salt than pepper, a squat barrel who looks like a character in Disney’s
Snow White
. “We ain’t millionaires, you know.”

“But we can cover the costs,” Lone Wolf says quickly. He doesn’t want me getting cold feet.

“You’re going to have to cool your heels in here a few days,” I inform them. “The prosecutor can hold you without a formal charge until he can get a judge to hear this on Monday, and after that he’s going to press for confinement until he goes to the grand jury. So you won’t skip.”

“We didn’t skip before,” Roach reminds me.

“You weren’t under suspicion of murder before,” I inform him. “It won’t be long,” I say, trying to put the best face on it I can, “only a couple of days more than you were going to be in town anyway. You’ll save money on room and meals.”

They don’t protest, they’ve been through this, they can do a week in hell if they have to.

“That should do it for now,” I tell them, packing up. “I’ll check in on you tomorrow.”

I start to call the guard to let me out. Lone Wolf stops me.

“If worse comes to worse … if somehow we gotta go all the way to trial … how much freight do we have to pay?”

I was waiting for that. I’d hoped it wouldn’t come up tonight.

“A murder case like this is normally going to cost fifty to seventy-five grand,” I tell him. This isn’t the time to pull punches. “Depending on what flows to the surface.”

They blink, swallow hard. All except Lone Wolf, who doesn’t flinch a muscle.

“Apiece,” I add.

Now they react, even Lone Wolf. He tries to mask it.

“We can cover it,” he doggedly assures me.

“Half up front.”

“I said we can cover it.” He only has one gear: forward, full-speed. The others eye us nervously, spectators in a high-stakes game.

Goose clears his throat.

“We got to talk about this,” he declares.

“Let me say something first,” I interject quickly.

They turn to me.

“I won’t be charging my normal fee,” I tell them. “I’ll be giving you a special rate.”

Lone Wolf stares at me.

“Why?”

“Because I believe in this case,” I tell them. “Because you need me—you need the best.”

Because
I
need
you
, is closer to the truth. I’m out of work, I can’t afford to let this one slip away. Not only for the money, but for the notoriety, the publicity, as well. Not many cases this inflammatory come down the pike; I need the visibility as well as the hard cash.

“So how much?” Lone Wolf asks.

“I’m going to try to do the whole thing for a hundred-fifty grand,” I say. “One-seventy-five tops. Anything less won’t give you the defense you’re going to need, if anyone tells you less they’re lying.”

Lone Wolf stares at me.

“We can cover that,” he says. “If it won’t go higher.”

“We’ll have to make sure it doesn’t,” I tell them.

They smile.

“We want the best,” Goose says. “And that’s you, man. And you’ll have your money—that’s a promise.”

I’m sure I will. I don’t want to know where it comes from, though. Manuel Noriega’s lawyers don’t want to know where their client’s money comes from, and neither do I.

“Let’s hope you don’t have to spend much of it,” I say. “Personally I think it’s a long shot this gets past the grand jury.”

“How long?”

I pick a figure out of the air. “Twenty to one.”

That cheers them up.

“As long as you’re our lawyer all the way,” Lone Wolf says. “I’ve got a good feeling about you, man.”

The other shoe drops. I know their records; they’d been bad boys and paid the price for it, but none of them have ever faced a murder charge.

“
If
they press charges,” I tell them, “and
if
they can convince the grand jury to buy them, so you actually have to stand trial: I’m one of your lawyers. Or rather,” I cover myself quickly before they can say anything, “I’m the lawyer for
one
of you.”

“What do you mean? What the fuck do you mean?” Lone Wolf is standing, hovering over me.

“Sit down,” I order. “Now, goddam it!”

He shoots me the evil look, but he sits. They’re all confused, disturbed.

“Here’s the drill,” I explain. “I can’t defend more than one of you on a murder charge. It’s against the bar’s code of ethics, for a good reason. It’s conflict-of-interest.”

“Fuck conflict-of-interest. You’re the man around here. You’re who we want. All of us.”

I shake my head. “There’re plenty of good criminal lawyers in this state,” I tell them. “The public defender’s office has a great criminal defense team. If it was me,” I say, “that’s who I’d call.”

“We’re not you,” Lone Wolf says flatly.

“Anyway that’s how it works,” I tell them with finality. “Here or anywhere. And it’s not like we’re four ships passing in the night,” I continue, “we’re all in it together, we pool our strategies, our efforts. It’s like having four lawyers for the price of …”