Bad Lawyer by Stephen Solomita Read Free Book Online Page B

hallway, then slam and lock the door. “I hate gray days,” she called as she walked into the kitchen. Drops of rain glistened in her hair. “You see this?” She dropped a soggy Newsday in my lap.
    I thumbed through it quickly, finding Phoebe Morris’s column on page five. It ran under the headline, Justice For The Undeserving? , and first examined several cases in which poor women with a criminal background and a proven history of abuse had been convicted of murdering their husbands, then contrasted their treatment with that of several middle-class women who’d either been exonerated by a jury or never been charged. Priscilla Sweet’s name, along with a detailed history of her criminal activities, appeared near the end of the column.
    “Does the fact,” Phoebe concluded, “that Priscilla Sweet doesn’t live in a Long Island bedroom community, that she doesn’t have 1.5 children, or attend PTA meetings or church socials, mean that she has lost the right to defend herself? The question begs an answer.”
    I passed the newspaper to Caleb, then turned to Julie. “Phoebe took me at my word.”
    “I guess there’s something about you that inspires trust.” Julie picked up a roll and deftly split it. “Looks like the other side’s been busy, too.”
    Julie was referring to Priscilla’s criminal background which Phoebe Morris could only have gotten from the prosecution or the cops.
    “Anyway,” Julie continued, “the photos came out okay.” She tossed an envelope onto the table. “Your client looks good in yellow-green.”
    I laid the prints on the table and examined them closely. The fading bruises, especially one on the right side of her back which looked like an enormous birthmark, were still prominent.
    “Did you make an appointment with Ms. Morris?” I asked.
    “I’m meeting her this afternoon. She seemed eager.”
    I nodded my appreciation. “Caleb, whatta ya say we get ready to visit our client?”
    Caleb dropped the photos and began to make another sandwich. “For the ride,” he explained. As if explanations were necessary.

Five
    I T TOOK A GOOD part of the afternoon, not to convince Owen Shaughnessy that a trial would be a disaster, but to uncover the reason why he was determined to remain at Rikers. Owen, it seemed, was in love with another prisoner, a prostitute-junkie named Mario Cassano, and was prepared to risk ten years of his life in order to spend a few additional months with his paramour. Or, at least, he was willing until Caleb explained (for the fourth or fifth time) that if Owen took the state’s offer, he’d do his time at a minimum security joint. If he went to trial and lost, on the other hand, the length of his sentence would guarantee incarceration at a maximum security prison.
    “Southport,” Caleb intoned, “Green Haven, Clinton, Attica.”
    “But I love him,” Owen replied.
    “Southport,” Caleb repeated, “Green Haven, Clinton, Attica.”
    From Owen Shaughnessy, Caleb and I made our way to the reception desk at the Rose Singer Jail, where I submitted to a search of my briefcase. I didn’t know the officer who fumbled through my papers—a man named Robinson, according to his nameplate—but as he took the twenty I’d tucked behind the inside strap, I figured we’d get along. Sure enough, it being late in the afternoon and most of the visitors departed, twenty minutes later I was saying hello to my client.
    “Sidney.” Her greeting was as self-contained as her bland expression, but the intelligence in her cold sharp eyes betrayed her concern. She’d been expecting me all afternoon. “I thought you weren’t coming.” Her gaze jumped from me to Caleb.
    “Priscilla,” I said rather formally, “this is my investigator, Caleb Talbot.” I waited for them to exchange a nod before continuing. “Caleb is going to be important to your defense. He’s the one who’ll be out there contacting witnesses to your husband’s abuse. I brought him here so the two of