Against the Wind (8 page)

“Four.” Lone Wolf finishes for me. He looks at the others, establishing primacy, then back to me. “If that’s the way it goes that’s the way it goes.” He stares hard at me. “When do they get to meet the other three geniuses?”

I’m now officially his lawyer. I didn’t figure it would go any other way. None of the others mouth a protest.

“Hopefully never,” I say. “The grand jury can’t return an indictment based on what you’ve told me.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Fine. So no other representation will be necessary.” I start to go, then casually turn back as if just struck by an idea.

“Just for the hell of it,” I tell them, “I’ll check around. Make sure the best people are available.”

They’re not Einsteins, but they catch the subterfuge.

“You just said we wouldn’t need them.”

“I know,” I admit. “But I’m a lawyer; I’m trained to cover every possible contingency; it’s Pavlovian, I can’t help it.” Are they buying it? I hope, looking at them. I don’t think so.

“I’ll see you in the morning.” The jailer swings the door open. As I’m leaving Lone Wolf cracks a wiseguy grin.

“Not if we see you first.”

The door bangs shut. We’re joined at the hip now.

There’s one bright spot in this: won’t Fred and Andy be thrilled to see me bright and early tomorrow morning, I think gleefully as I walk across the quad in the dry evening heat.

I’VE BEEN BEHIND
closed doors for two hours already, since seven. I called Susan last night, filled her in, told her to be early and to keep her mouth shut. She was nervous, but happy and combative. It’s nice to know there are some things in life that aren’t for sale.

They come in together, Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Fred was here first, Susan kept me informed over the intercom, but he waited for Andy. Andy and I may patch this up someday, but Fred’s already a memory.

“Cleaning up some last minute business?” Fred asks benignly. They’re at my desk, hovering like a Jewish mother with a bowl of nice hot chicken soup. Actually, Andy’s the mother; Fred’s the wart-faced spinster aunt.

I keep them waiting, the old head-in-the-paperwork shtick. Finally I look up with a distracted smile.

“New business,” I say. “Don’t worry,” I quickly reassure them, “the world need not know I’m on the premises.”

“It won’t wash, Will,” Andy says. He’s pissed, trying to hold it in. “We talked this all out. Don’t force us into doing something you’ll regret.”

“Like what?” I stand. I’m in the power spot, in my office behind my desk. “Come on, don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Jesus, Will,” Fred whines, “do you have to be such a jerk?”

“Do I have to be such a jerk?” I turn my gaze to the ceiling. There’s a waterspot from last year when the toilets backed up; got to get it fixed. “That’s a very interesting question, Fred. Verrry interesting. Are we talking from the legal or philosophical viewpoint?”

“Will …” Andy’s growling. I’ve known them forever, I know every button to push.

Now I turn and look at them, leaning forward on my antique piñon desk for emphasis. It’s a couple hundred years old, belonged to one of the land-grant governors. I’ve turned down $12,500 for it.

“Let me explain the facts of life as I see them,” I say. “You want me out of here. Fine. At this point
I
want me out of here. I’m sick and tired of your holier-than-thouness and your utter lack of compassion and continuity.”

“Will …” Andy tries to stop me. I shake my head; I’m unstoppable this morning.

“Hear me out. Please.” Damn, I think, savoring the thought, I’m a good arguer. No wonder I’m such a bitch in the courtroom.

“I am not a saint,” I continue. “I am not even a wonderful person. But I am a man who has
always
; and I don’t use that word lightly; has
always
backed his buddies. Like the time, Fred,” I remind him, “when the Ethics Committee was up your shirt about the Indian Trust Fund.”

“That was crap,” Fred says hotly.

“Yeh, it was,” I answer. “But you were sweating it. And who presented your case and made them look like jerks?”

“It wasn’t the same situation, Will,” Andy says. “Don’t milk it.”

“Fine,” I answer. “Then I’ll put it to you as dead-center as I can. I got a case over the weekend …”

“We know,” he says. “Robertson told us.”

“Then you know these people need the best criminal defense lawyer in the state
who is me
and that is who they are going to get! You don’t want me associated with the firm, fine. Take my name off the door, I’ll use the side entrance. I won’t bother anyone in the office, I won’t even talk to anyone except Susan, because she’s mine, and by the way you’ll have her letter of resignation on your desks by lunch.”

I pause, an old summation trick; I’ve been going at breakneck speed, you have to let them get a breath and catch up.

“I am taking this case for as long as it goes,” I continue on. “Hopefully a week, but if it drags on until Armageddon I will be on it, and I will be operating out of my office. And if that doesn’t suit you then file papers for dissolution of the partnership and we’ll blow the whole fucking thing sky high!”

They’re teetering. I’m watching it with glee. One strong breath and they’ll topple over.

“My advice,” I go on, “is to just let it slide. Let’s not rock the boat okay? You want the world to think I’m still on my leave? Great. I’m only here because of the potential gravity of this case. When it’s over I’ll go back to my fishing.”

They look at me. They’re in a no-win situation: they give a shit, and I don’t. And they know it.

“I think that’s a good scenario,” Andy says after a moment. “That’s how this firm works. We don’t abandon clients just because we have a problem.”

“I agree,” Fred chirps. “The firm has an obligation.”

“Good.” I smile at them in turn. “That’s the party line. But between us and God the firm doesn’t have jackshit to do with this. It’s my case, I’ll take the fees, and the glory if there is any. You can bask in my sun,” I add. I’m gloating; I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it.

“Fine,” Fred answers, tight-lipped. “I hope you make a lot of money off this one, Will. You might have to live off it a long time.”

He turns and walks out. Andy and I are left.

“Too bad it couldn’t’ve been him with the elbow problem,” I offer.

He shrugs. “Too bad? Who’s to say? But it’s your problem, and from the looks of things I don’t see you solving it.” He pauses. “Quite the contrary.”

“Maybe I will.” And maybe I won’t.

He looks at me. He doesn’t have to say anything more. I’ve lost him; rather, we’ve lost each other. He leaves me alone. I don’t want to be here right now. I tell Susan I’m leaving, and exit through the side door. Nobody sees me.

ROBERTSON UNCHARACTERISTICALLY KEEPS
me waiting half an hour. When I finally get in to see him he isn’t alone; Frank Moseby’s with him at the opposite side of the room, leaning against the credenza. He smirks at me.

Frank Moseby is an asshole who wears a face. He’s tall, stoop-shouldered, overweight, doughy, with chronic B.O. His shirts always tell you what he ate for lunch, and to top it off he’s a racist. Most New Mexicans are fiercely proud of their Spanish cultural heritage, but down south, where Moseby comes from, it’s still strictly redneck; land-grant families that’ve been important in the state for hundreds of years are cholos.

Despite what for most people would be lethal drawbacks, Frank’s become the top gun in the prosecution division. Sure, it’s partly attrition; most good criminal lawyers his age have moved into private practice, but he likes the action he gets in his job; and his personality would kill him in the real world. But there’s more to it than that. He’s a hard-shell Christian who believes with all his heart that most people are scumbags and criminals, and that it’s his job, his duty, his holy obligation to put as many of them away as possible. He’s a lay preacher in one of the local conservative churches, and he brings the fervor of the preacher into the courtroom. It’s corny sometimes, it probably wouldn’t play in New York or Los Angeles, but out here it’s effective as hell, even in a supposedly sophisticated oasis like Santa Fe.

What makes it all perversely effective is that Moseby knows and cultivates it. He’s reveled in being the lone redneck homeboy among a covey of slick modern lawyers for so long it’s second nature now.

His presence here means two things: he’s being assigned to this case, and Robertson’s taking it seriously.

“My compliments to your tailor,” I tell him.

He flips me the bird. If there’s one thing about Frank I do like, it’s that you know exactly where you stand with him.

“When are my clients going to be charged?” I ask Robertson, getting to the point of my visit. He’s sitting behind his desk, leaning back in his chair like a slim blond Buddha, staring up at me through narrow-lidded eyes.

“When I’ve got something to charge them with,” he answers calmly.

“And when will that be, pray tell?” I ask, wishing he wasn’t being so cute. Bail can’t be set until they’re charged, and he can request denial of bail; with the new criminal justice code it’s easier to do, especially in a capital case with defendants who have records and bad reputations: defendants like mine.

“Well,” he says, leaning forward, “the statute says it has to be pretty soon. Unless I can talk the judge into extending,” he adds.

Which means if he doesn’t have enough hard evidence to take to the grand jury by then that’s exactly what he’s going to try to do.

“You’re not playing by the rules, John,” I say.

“Whose rules?” he asks.

“How about the state of New Mexico’s?”

“Little early in the game to tell me I’m doing something wrong, isn’t it, Will?”

“I just want to see how the land lies.” I glance over at Moseby. He’s still wearing his smirk, flashes it at me.

“Like this,” Robertson answers. “I think these parasites are guilty, Will.” He stands up, facing me. “I feel it in my gut, real strong. And I am going to do everything I can to find evidence that’ll prove me right.”

“My gut tells me the exact opposite,” I say. Right now my gut is churning to beat the band.

“Fine. But let me warn you: I’m going to throw everything I can at this case. Frank here’ll do his usual first-rate job, and I will personally be in that courtroom, especially when the time comes for summation. Goddam it, Will,” he tells me with honest conviction, “they did it. And I know it. And nothing will turn me around until you prove to me they didn’t.”

“You mean they’re guilty until proven innocent.”

“They’ll get a fair trial.”

“And then you’ll hang them.”

“I hope so.”

First Andy, now him. It’s been a wonderful morning.

“And don’t forget, Will,” Robertson reminds me, “bail can be denied on a capital case. Usually is.”

The bastard’s reading my mind.

“Good luck,” he throws in. “You’ll need it … all the way through.”

“And may the best man win,” Moseby throws in.

What a schmuck. I can’t help it; I break into a grin.

“In that case,” I tell him, “it’s a lay-down.”

Frank Moseby is sitting in the bar of the Freeway Ramada Inn with Luis Sanchez and Jesse Gomez. Sanchez and Gomez are senior deputies with the county sheriff’s office. They’ve been assigned to this case: Moseby asked for them specifically. They’ve both been cops for over twenty years, they hold no illusions about the nobility of the criminal justice system, in fact it’s the opposite: laws are a nuisance to them, to be obeyed when it’s convenient, skirted when it’s necessary. This doesn’t mean they’re crooks; it means they understand the job.

They’re off-duty, so they’re drinking draft Michelobs and scarfing bar nuts. Moseby’s beverage of choice is Diet Pepsi; his church forbids consumption of alcohol. Gomez chain-smokes Salems, a habit he picked up in the army. His eye is on the waitress, a full-figured woman he guesses is in her early forties. He likes them stacked, he likes the way she looks good in the uniform of the day: high heels, old-fashioned seamed black mesh stockings, miniskirt, low-cut peasant blouse. In a little while he’ll make an excuse that he’s got to go to the john so he can find out what time she gets off. From where he’s sitting she isn’t wearing any rings.

“So you hooked a big one, eh?” Sanchez is saying. “A regular barracuda.”

“A whole school of sharks,” Moseby says.

“Now you gotta reel them in.” Gomez brings his attention back to business.

Moseby nods. He chugs the last of his Pepsi, swirls an ice cube in his mouth, crunching it loudly. Spittle forms around the corners of his lips. He holds his empty glass high in the air. What a pig, Gomez thinks. The guy has absolutely no class at all. And some poor bitch has to lay this dork. He wonders idly what Moseby’s wife must look like. Not like this waitress, that’s for sure.

“Another round?” She’s standing over them. He looks up at her. She’s practically falling out of her blouse, goddam what a set. She’s smiling, she likes him, he can tell. A lot of them like him, he’s famous in the department.

“What do you think I’ve got my hand up for, to air out my armpit?” Moseby says. He’s a solitary laugher at his own bad taste. She blinks; Gomez winces. He catches her eye, winks conspiratorially: you and I know he’s an asshole. She smiles back. He drops his arm nonchalantly off the top of the booth so it accidentally brushes the side of her calf. She doesn’t back off. His fingers trail the seam of her stocking. She bites her lip.

“I’ll be right back with those drinks.” She sashays away.

Moseby cracks the ice cube with his teeth. “That’s your job,” he says. “You two. I figure if anybody can find something we can pin on these lowlifes you can.”

“You figured right,” Sanchez says with ease. “If there’s anything out there we’ll find it.”

Gomez lights a Salem, floats a smoke ring, which drifts up towards the fake wood-beamed ceiling. “What do you figure is out there?” he asks. “Why are you holding them?”

“Because Robertson wants to,” Moseby answers honestly. “Because a truly awful crime was committed and they were in town.”

Somebody’s punched up “Third-rate Romance” on the jukebox.