Bad Lawyer by Stephen Solomita Read Free Book Online Page A

her life. Give her a chance to think about it before I get there.”
    I hung up a moment later, went into the kitchen, filled a mug with coffee, then returned to my office. The next job, as I saw it, was to clear the deck. I had three clients at the time, mutts, one and all, who’d somehow managed to scrape up the cost of an informed plea bargain. Or, at least, that’s what I’d thought when I’d taken them on. Unfortunately, one of the bunch, a Hell’s Kitchen drug dealer named Owen Shaughnessy, was making noises like he wanted to go to trial. Never mind the fact that he’d sold three ounces of heroin to an undercover cop. Never mind the fact that the transaction had been recorded on both video and audio tape. Never mind the fact that, given his record, he’d get an extra ten years in prison for his refusal to accept the state’s more-than-generous offer of two-to-six. Owen Shaughnessy felt he’d purchased the right to jury trial with his lousy two grand, that he was entitled.
    My problem was that I’d already pulled out all the stops; I’d cursed his stupidity, screamed in his face, banged my chair on the floor. His response: “Hey, somethin’ could happen. You don’t know the fuckin’ future.”
    I decided to meet with my clients that afternoon, to ferret out their respective prosecutors on Monday morning. If I couldn’t talk Mister Shaughnessy into a sane course of action, I’d do everything I could to have his trial postponed until after Priscilla Sweet had been judged. As for the other two, I intended to make an appearance at their sentencings (hopefully in the same courtroom on the same day), wish them good luck, and be on my way to bigger and better things.
    Two hours later, I strolled into the kitchen to find Caleb busy with his lunch. He had a plate of cold cuts—ham, swiss, and turkey—spread before him, another plate with slices of onion, tomato, and hot pepper to his left. A basket of heated rolls in the middle of the table steamed lightly.
    “You ready for lunch, boss?”
    “It’s a little early for me. You didn’t make fresh coffee by any chance?”
    “Your favorite: chocolate, raspberry, almond supreme.”
    I shuddered. “I take it this is Julie’s work?”
    “My work, Julie’s orders. Siddown.” He got up, filled a mug with coffee, and set it in front of me. “Try holding your nose,” he instructed.
    Being, at heart, a charitable man, I waited until Caleb constructed his sandwich, blessed it, and brought it to his mouth before raising the essential question.
    “That cop, Rodriguez, he was first on the scene, right?”
    Caleb nodded, then bit into his sandwich. His eyelids drooped slightly and his nostrils flared as he began to chew.
    “Rodriguez say anything about cocaine?”
    “Uh-uh.”
    “You ask?”
    He looked at me for a moment, then bit into his sandwich again. “Man told me he went through the rooms, made sure there wasn’t no killer hidin’ in the closet, then went into the hall and waited for the suits.”
    “Caleb, did you ask him if he saw the cocaine?”
    “It’s too early to get nervous, boss.” He laid his sandwich on the plate. “And what Officer Rodriguez saw don’t amount to a hill of shit. If the sergeant running the case, Sergeant what’s-his-name …”
    “Shawn McLearry …”
    “Yeah, if Sergeant McLearry says he found the coke in plain view, Rodriguez won’t be the one to call him a liar.” Caleb jabbed a dripping sandwich in my direction and smiled. “That ain’t the way the job works.”
    I nodded agreement and settled down to my coffee. Though cops ordinarily need a warrant to conduct a search, an exception allows them to seize evidence of a crime if said evidence is lying in plain view and they have a legitimate reason for being there. Looking through the rooms for a perpetrator or other victims was, of course, legitimate police business.
    A few minutes later, Julie came into the apartment. I heard her shake out her raincoat in the