The Arraignment by Steve Martini Read Free Book Online

fees,” I tell him.
    “See, you’re learning already. Let’s start looking at the upside.” Nick would have to be a stone monument to optimism to find even a tin foil lining in this particular cloudburst.
    “None of the major money came into the U.S., right? I mean the two million. It went from Mexico to Belize and back again, is that correct?”
    “Except for Metz’s fee.”
    “Forget about that for the moment. What we have here is perhaps some financial sleight of hand. But it all takes place outside of U.S. jurisdiction. Right?”
    “That’s one way to look at it. The other way is that you have a U.S. citizen facilitating currency violations in two foreign countries.”
    “So? Let them charge him there. You and I aren’t licensed to practice law in Mexico. That’s somebody else’s problem.”
    “Ask Metz if he wants to take his chances on serving the next millennium in some dung heap in Mexico.”
    “You think the Mexican government would actually bring charges?”
    “I think that if the feds are trying to squeeze your man to find out what he knows, they may well threaten him with extradition south. They could probably get the Mexican government to lend their cooperation. The last time I looked, the two countries had a treaty.”
    Nick ponders this problem, scratching his chin with the back of his fingers while he grins at me from across the table. “I guess I’m gonna have to talk to my wife about the company she keeps.”
    “Answer one question for me,” I say. “Tell me you didn’t suspect this was drug related.”
    He looks at me and hesitates only a second. “Sure. I still don’t,” he says.
    The words are there, but they are not convincing. The fact that he says it with a smile undercuts the effect even more. If Nick didn’t know, his demeanor tells me that he had strong suspicions. He thanks me for taking the time as he finishes his coffee and I study the water in the little stainless steel pot. Nick looks at his watch.
    “I guess I’m gonna have to go,” he says. “Unless of course you want to do a favor for a friend.”
    “Don’t push it,” I tell him.
    “I understand,” he says. Then slides out of the booth. “I’ll give you a call this afternoon. Let you know what happened.”
    “Not unless you want me to bill you for my time,” I tell him.
    He laughs, then heads for the door. “Marge. My friend will catch the bill. Put a good tip on it,” he says.
    Before I can turn to say anything, he’s out the door.
    It’s the thing about Nick. He can screw you twenty waysfrom Sunday, but he lives on the sunny side of optimism so it’s hard not to like him.
    I give him a good head start, playing with the tea bag, not because I want to drink it. I have no desire to run into Nick with Metz out in front of the courthouse on my way back to the car.
    Marge comes with the bill, slaps it unceremoniously on the table, and takes Nick’s coffee cup away, the sludge still in the bottom. Two minutes later, I get up from the booth, peel some singles from folded cash in my pocket, when I see it. Lying there against the worn red plastic of the bench on the other side of the table is Nick’s little handheld device. For a man with a cerebral vacuum, who can suck up the most abstract details in a courtroom, Nick is missing the gene that keeps him attached to physical possessions. As long as I have known him, he has left things behind. Like my teenage daughter, if he owns it, he’ll lose it.
    I pick it up, slip it into my coat pocket, and pay the bill.
    Outside I make tracks. Maybe I can run him down before he finds Metz. When I get to the corner, I look down the street toward the courthouse where Nick is supposed to meet his client. There is a mass of humanity between me and the front of the building, people walking on the sidewalk, but I don’t see Nick.
    I cross over and start down the other side of the street, hoping I catch his eye before he hooks up with Metz. I’m a third of the way down