The Victim (18 page)

“
Are you in danger? I mean specific danger? Has somebody hurt you or threatened you?”

He could hear the murmur of jailhouse noise.

“
Not yet. But it’s the way they look at me. You need to get me outta here. I’m serious. You’re my lawyer.”

Whatever fog he was in when they had first met had worn off. He was back to his true self. Daniella was right about him. Spoiled rich kid, used to getting immediate gratification from anybody on his payroll. Now it was Anton’s turn. A $30,000 hired hand.

“
I’m going to be scheduling your Arthur Hearing as soon as possible. But you have to remember; you’re charged with a non-bondable offense. There’s no guarantee that you’re getting a bond.”

“
Can you just come and see me?” he whined.

“
Fine.”

***

The pale, scared white boy gave way to the entitled son of the company president the moment the corrections officer locked the interview room door. The swelling in Bryan’s eye had subsided enough that Anton could see the contempt in his gaze. His face was gritty with five o’clock shadow.

“
This is the most fucked-up place on the goddamn planet!” Bryan’s shoulders rose and fell with heavy breath. “You need to get me the hell out of here! Now!”

Anton closed his eyes and took a calming breath. “Of course it’s a fucked-up place. It’s a fucked-up situation. But you’re charged with a life felony. Securing a bond takes time.”

Bryan balled his fists, his handcuffs and belly chain tinkling. “My wife paid you
thirty thousand dollars
. Thirty thousand dollars of
my money
and I’m still sitting in jail like some common criminal while these black guys in here are getting better service from their public defenders. Do your fucking job.”

The nice guy in Anton snapped.

“
Listen!” he barked. The bass in his voice resonated throughout the tiny room, silencing Bryan. “You don’t get any preferential treatment just ’cause your daddy owns some construction company and people have to call you sir. The process is the same for everyone. You may wear Versace shirts and Rolex watches out there, but in here you’re just another orange jumper like the rest of ’em. Just like those guys who look at you funny, hoping the CO isn’t watching so they can take you into a remote corner and fuck you up the ass. This is the situation you’re in. Deal with it. I’m doing everything I can. You don’t like me; fire me. Go find another lawyer.”

Bryan’s posture drooped, his lips parted in an astonished gap—the shock of being spoken to like that for the first time in his life.

The tendons in Anton’s neck stood out like tight wires. His chest heaved. He was ready to say forget it, give the money back. It took every bit of restraint not to lunge across that table and choke the life out of that punk.

He revisited Daniella’s account of the incident. Having seen Bryan’s true colors the event played out in his mind with greater accuracy. Bryan was the textbook batterer. High and mighty in his own mind, so constrained by his ego that he would exert whatever means of control he could. For his employees that was easy. He could deprive them of their livelihood. But control over his wife required force, even permitted it.

Anton sized him up: the twerp with the pouty expression, unable to understand consequences, even in a place like this. Bryan couldn’t rely on physical prowess in the world outside his marriage. Typical small man’s syndrome, a constant chip on his shoulder. But with his wife, compared to whom his unimpressive size seemed brutish, he would be allowed to exert himself in a way that emboldened him to be a
real man
, full of macho dick-swinging bravado.

Anton looked at Bryan’s hands. Long, slender fingers. Nails professionally trimmed and buffed. No callouses on his palms. Prissy hands. But those were the hands that had removed his belt and looped it around Daniella’s neck like a noose, pulling her to the ground like a dog on a leash, standing above her with the ability to cut off her breathing with one swift tug. In so many ways, that single act of violence defined their relationship. By controlling her breath, he controlled her life. By his grace alone, she could live.

Bryan ran his palm through his greasy hair. “Look. I’m stressed; this food is shit. I got COs treating me like a second-class citizen. I gotta watch my ass. This isn’t what I’m used to. I’m not like the rest of these guys.”

Anton shrugged it off. His skin was so thick after four years in criminal defense work he was convinced he could deflect bullets bare-chested.

“
Fine,” he said, purposefully short and to the point. “I understand your concern. The case is only days old, but I can get us an Arthur Hearing even before charges are filed. This is where the judge
may
—and I stress
may
—grant you a bond if certain criteria is established. I’ll get the motion filed today and have my secretary schedule a date with the judge’s assistant.”

Anton bent down and unclasped his briefcase. He retrieved a single page and laid it on the table in front of Bryan.

Bryan studied the page, confused. “What’s this?”

“
It’s a HIPAA release.”

“
What’s that?”

“
Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act. It’s the law that protects your medical information. I need you to sign this so that my investigator can get your infirmary records. If they gave you any pain medication they would have done a blood draw first.”

With his cuffed hands Bryan picked up the pen on the table and scribbled his signature.

Anton reached for the wall and hit the buzzer, signaling for a CO to come collect his client.

“
That’s it? That’s the visit I get?”

Anton set his briefcase on the table, arranged his papers, and closed it. “There’s nothing more to discuss at this time, Bryan.”

The bolt in the heavy steel door clanged as the corrections officer opened it, standing in the doorway.

“
You all done, counsel?”

Anton nodded. “Yep.”

The CO ordered Bryan to stand, cupping his elbow and leading him out of the interview room and ushering him down the hallway, walking that jerky convict’s walk—the steps limited by the length of chain connected to each ankle.

Anton breathed a sigh of relief.

It was so much easier representing a guilty client.

CHAPTER 18

Anton checked that his phone, which in compliance with jail protocol, had been left in the car. Three voicemails—all prospective clients. Still in the first month of the New Year, 2014 was shaping up to be his best yet. The New Year’s Eve arrestees were getting their court dates, realizing it was time to take that Christmas money and hire themselves a good lawyer. Anton returned all three calls, leaving two voicemails, and speaking with the third—the anxious mother of a college student with no priors who had been arrested for disorderly intoxication outside of a South Beach club. Easy misdemeanor that would probably be nolle prossed on principal alone. Anton quoted $1,500 and jotted down her American Express card on the back of an envelope while tending the wheel with one hand.

Anton tuned his SiriusXM dial to ‘70s on 7.’ Steely Dan’s “Peg” was on—a veritable clinic in musicianship and studio perfection. Back when they were dating, Anton had convinced Gina to go and see them at the Hard Rock. They were easily the youngest in attendance. She always said he had an old white man’s taste in music.

He rapped his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the jazzy bass riff, the
tsst
of the high-hat. Another $1,500 in his pocket on top of the $30,000 he had already made this week.

A rush of euphoria flowed through him like the tingle of a good tequila buzz.

Less than two miles east of Metro West and he had forgotten about Bryan. The one factor you can count on in criminal defense is the glaring lack of accountability in those who seek your services. Bryan was no different. A rich kid, none too bright, handed the reins to his father’s business as if prosperity were his birthright.

Daniella’s words echoed in his head. With the belt around her neck he had told her she was
an unappreciative bitch
and that she was
nothing without him.

Anton thought of the week of fees padding his pocket, inflating his checking account to unforeseen levels. He loved his job but it was only that. A job. He wasn’t a true believer. He accepted the fact that nearly all of his clients were guilty. He zealously defended but he reserved his personal judgments.

This was a job, a means to an end. A life that his working-class parents back in Southern California had tried but fell short of providing.

He thought about Daniella.

In the past week her sense of security, her marriage, her entire life had been thrown into upheaval. If Anton’s experience served him correctly, she would agree to sign the affidavit and would choose not to prosecute. Sylvia would leave no stone unturned in trying to bring her in and keep the case alive, if only to piss Anton off. But in the end a crime against a victim requires the assistance of a victim. Photographs, 911 recordings, and speculative circumstances couldn’t overcome the human element of live testimony. If Daniella wanted the charges dropped, Anton was positive he could make it happen.

Stopped at the light on Northwest 36th Street and Milam Dairy Road, he flipped open the Avery file and leafed through the papers, looking for the one on which he had scribbled down her phone number. Eighteen-wheelers trudged north on Milam Dairy while the light took forever to change. The Turner Guilford Knight Correctional Center, occupying the northeast corner, stood like a concrete tomb.

After two rings she answered, “Hey, Anton.”

She had saved his number. He activated his BlueTooth.

“
Hi. You doing all right?”

“
Yeah, much better.” Her voice filled the car. “Thank you for asking. A friend’s been staying with me. The marks on my neck seem to be healing. Still a little stiff but nothing serious. How are things going with the case?”

“
They’re going as well as can be expected so far.”

Anton treaded those waters carefully, not willing to divulge any confidential information. He disclosed only what she could glean herself from public records. No filing decision had been made as of yet, the prosecutor was a tough veteran named Sylvia Kaplan, and the arraignment date was coming up. He advised her of his intent to file for an Arthur Hearing and that she should expect to be hearing from the State Attorney’s Office soon.

“
The prosecutor already contacted me.”

“
Huh. Not surprised.”

“
Yeah, she’s a little pushy. Says she’s thinking of charging Bryan with attempted murder? Can she do that?”

“
She’s a prosecutor, she can file whatever she wants. Doesn’t mean it will stick. That would jack up his guidelines but he’s still facing life on the burg-batt.”

“
In other words, this is serious.”

“
Yes. Very.”

Anton watched his words carefully. With Sylvia monitoring the case and having already made contact with Daniella, she would certainly inquire whether she had spoken with Bryan’s attorney. The mere appearance that he may have suggested that she drop the charges and Anton knew that Sylvia would have him investigated for witness tampering as well as reported to the Florida Bar.

“
Is he going to get out?”

“
I’m in the process of making that happen. Look, I gotta be delicate here. I don’t want you to—”

“
I understand completely. You can’t tell me not to show up for my pre-file conference. You can’t tell me to ignore a subpoena. I get it.”