Bad Lawyer by Stephen Solomita Read Free Book Online

decision, then said, “You’re very rude, Mr. Kaplan.”
    “Please, call me Sid.”
    That brought another pause. “I don’t …”
    “My problem is that your daughter also lied to me. My problem is that you both lied about something you both knew I’d discover. My problem is that you lied about money.”
    “Money?” Her voice contained equal measures of outrage and surprise.
    “Drug cases are won or lost at preliminary hearings, Mrs. Barrow, and your daughter knows it. The evidence has to be excluded or the jury convicts.” I dropped my feet to the carpet and leaned forward. “That means I’ll have to make appearances in court, write and file briefs, do research or hire someone else to do it.” I let my voice drop. “Five thousand doesn’t begin to cover my time and expenses. Doesn’t even begin .’”
    “Mr. Kaplan …”
    “Sid.”
    “Look, Sid, if you think I was trying to …” She hesitated long enough for me to wonder if she’d been about to use the phrase Jew you down. “… chisel, you’re wrong. I don’t know anything about cases or trials. For goodness sake, I’m a widow from Queens. My husband, Joe, owned a hardware store in Middle Village.”
    “So you’re saying, the other times Priscilla was busted, you didn’t get involved?”
    “No, I’m not saying that.”
    “Then you know.” I kept my voice flat. It was time to move on, give her something to play with. “Mrs. Barrow, did you ever witness Byron’s abuse? Personally?”
    “Call me Thelma.” She giggled, the sound remote, like the release of a held breath. “And, yes, I did. It happened shortly before my husband died. Priscilla came to the house one night, beaten so badly I couldn’t look her in the face. The next morning, while we were eating breakfast, Byron appeared out of nowhere. He knocked Prissy off her chair, then dragged her out. I mean literally, Sid. He dragged her out by the hair and forced her into his car.”
    She was angry now, and I could easily imagine her sitting in the witness box, her eyes overflowing, her lower jaw trembling.
    “Did anybody else see this happen?”
    “My husband, like I just told you.”
    I started to say, “Anybody alive,” but caught myself in time. “Someone else who can testify, Thelma.”
    “Only my neighbor, Gennaro Cassadina. But I don’t think …See, Mister Cassadina’s eighty-five and he doesn’t always remember everything.”
    “That’s all right. I’ll definitely be out to see him. Now …” Sudden changes of topic are part and parcel of every courtroom lawyer’s technique. Cop interrogators, incidentally, employ the same device, especially when circumstances preclude the use of balled fists. “Now, there is something I wanted to ask you about, Thelma.”
    “Yes?” Her voice hardened, as if she’d decided not to go down without a fight.
    “Do you remember when your daughter came out on parole?”
    “Of course.”
    “Well, I don’t know if I’ve got this right, but I’m looking at Byron’s rap sheet and it seems like he was in prison at the time.” I hesitated, but when she didn’t jump at the bait, I decided to make it as plain as I could. “See, the jury’s gonna want to know why she took him back after three years of living apart. And the prosecutor’s gonna say they were two drug dealers who had a falling out.”
    “Maybe he forced her.”
    “Maybe?” I swiveled the chair in a half-circle and looked out the window. Drops of cold January rain speckled the glass. The gray spongy mist beyond was so dense I couldn’t see the building across the street. “Mrs. Barrow, are you going to visit your daughter today?”
    “Yes, in about an hour.” She paused, then asked, “Will you be seeing Priscilla?” Her voice was tentative, like she wasn’t certain she had a right to ask questions.
    “I’ll be over this afternoon. What I want you to do in the meantime is bring up this question of Byron’s parole and why your daughter let him back into