Mean Streak by Carolyn Wheat Read Free Book Online Page A

“Or forgive. The neighborhood cop, Tommy Mackay, stopped by and talked to my father. Told him, sure, he could file a complaint, but he went on to say that the cops couldn’t protect him twenty-four hours a day, and maybe it would be better for all concerned if he made a complaint that a couple of niggers beat him up. That, by the way, was his precise wording: ‘a couple of niggers.’ When Tommy knew what the whole neighborhood knew: that Pop was beaten up by the Westies because he’d dared to ask for his money from the bet. As we left the neighborhood that night, as all my clothes and toys went into a rented truck and we drove up Broadway to Inwood as if we’d done something wrong, I swore to God I’d never take that kind of shit in my own life. And I swore that I’d show cops like Tommy that they couldn’t push people around like they pushed my father.”
    I said nothing for a full minute, then quietly asked, “So you think Nick Lazarus is a little like Tommy the cop? Pushing people around just because he can?”
    â€œI do,” my client replied. “And I’m counting on you to help me show him he can’t. I’m not sneaking out of the neighborhood this time, no matter what the bullies try to do to me.”
    We went to court two days later. Nick Lazarus had filed his indictment and Matt was charged with bribing a federal official.
    We were mobbed on the way into the courthouse. The reporters and minicams behind the police barricades were waiting for me this time. No cameras were allowed inside the sacred precincts of the federal courthouse; they would have to garner their sound bites on the steps before trial began. Ginger Hsu of Channel Five thrust a mike into my face and asked, “What do you think your client’s chances of acquittal are, Ms. Jameson?”
    I mouthed a “No comment” and pushed past the crowd. I was almost at the top of the stairs when I felt a tug on my silk-clad sleeve. I turned; Matt had my arm. He stopped me and motioned toward the steps below us.
    About halfway up, standing in the exact spot where the minicams would get a nice shot of the impressive courthouse columns behind him, stood Nick Lazarus. I couldn’t hear the words, but every one of the reporters listened, microphones poised, as he spoke. Next to him, Davia Singer wore a carefully schooled expression of neutrality on her thin face. It was the kind of expression a wife wears in public when her husband flirts with the waitress, a wait-till-I-get-you-home look. It was the expression my face undoubtedly would have worn if my boss had hogged the cameras on my case.
    Riordan stepped toward the knot of reporters. I wanted to grab his sleeve and pull him back, but he was too quick for me. By the time I caught up, he was at the edge of the crowd. I caught the last few words out of Nick Lazarus’ mouth: “Matt Riordan is a cancer in this courthouse,” he intoned, “and this trial will remove that cancer once and for all.”
    He’s no Cancer , I thought with flippant irrelevance, he’s a Scorpio . I had no idea what Matt was going to say, but it was clear to me he wasn’t going to let Lazarus have the last word with the press.
    Carlos Ruiz of Channel Seven stood next to Riordan. He nudged his cameraman, who turned the lens toward my client. Other reporters and camera people realized Riordan was nearby, and soon all the lenses were focused on him, all the mikes were poised and waiting for his reply to the insulting challenge just issued by the prosecution.
    Ruiz was known for his cocky, street-kid style. Geraldo Lite. “So, Riordan,” he began, “this Lazarus dude says you’re a cancer. That true, or what, man?”
    It was the perfect setup; if Riordan had paid Ruiz to ask the question, it couldn’t have gone better. “A cancer?” he quipped. “At best, I’m a hernia. A pain in the you-know-what. And