The Plea, page 5
part #2 of Eddie Flynn Series
The money.
It all came down to money.
Estimated at eight billion dollars in illegal transactions. That’s what Kennedy had told me just before I’d left this morning. I had to deliver a guilty plea for David so that Dell could make a deal for a lighter sentence in exchange for the partners, the money. Get the plea or they’ll put Christine away for life. Back in my office, I’d had no qualms about that setup. Now that I’d seen the kid, I began to wonder how he’d managed to pull the trigger on his girlfriend. He didn’t look like he could pull the tab on a soda can without help. An ill feeling grew in the back of my mind. I tried to ignore it.
The elevator clanked to a slow crawl and opened on the fifth floor of the Centre Street courthouse.
Forty minutes to get full representation from the mark.
Then another twenty-four hours to make him take a plea.
I stepped into a grand hall filled with the usual mix of people awaiting a date with a judge. Leaning against a pillar in the corner of the hall, I got my best view of the crowd. There were a few lawyers waiting around, and the ones that I recognized were not from Harland and Sinton; none of the attorneys in the hall wore anything remotely expensive. That firm prided itself on having the best attorneys money could buy, and they all got a two-thousand-dollar-per-month clothing allowance. The female attorneys favored Alexander McQueen, and the men liked Armani. Most of my suits were at the cleaner’s. My office was a little damp, so I had to get them cleaned often to get rid of the smell. The suit I wore that morning cost three hundred dollars and it was pretty much the best suit I owned.
I was about to kick off the pillar and head to court when I saw him.
It wasn’t Gerry Sinton. It wasn’t a Harland and Sinton attorney either.
He looked Hispanic, and he wore a black wool overcoat over a gray sweater, dark pants, and black shoes. He sat on a bench to the right of the central stairwell, maybe thirty feet away from me. His left index finger flicked across the screen of his smartphone. Quite a few court customers were doing the same thing, huddled in corners and on benches, sipping coffee from plastic cups and checking out what was going on in their virtual lives. But the man I saw was different. Even though his finger slashed across the screen in his hand, he paid no attention to it. The smartphone has become the twenty-first-century newspaper for surveillance men.
This guy was paying close attention to who was in the hall, and his gaze passed over me casually. He took a slug from a takeout coffee and eyeballed the room. As he leaned back to take another sip, I could see a tattoo on his neck, but I was too far away to see what it was. Definitely not a fed. I checked the crowd to see if I could identify who he was watching. Nobody stood out.
A sensation, almost like someone running a needle down the back of my neck, drew my attention to the coffee drinker.
He was staring at me.
When I was little my father took me on the Wild Asia Monorail in the Bronx Zoo. As we passed by an enclosure one of the Siberian tigers stopped dead and stared up at my rail car. It was looking straight at me. It didn’t growl, or bare its teeth. Just stared. Even as a ten-year-old kid, I knew from those ferocious eyes that the four-hundred-pound beast below wanted to tear me apart.
I got exactly the same feeling from this guy.
He threw his coffee into the garbage and left by the stairs. I guessed he hadn’t been looking for me, but he’d sensed that I had noticed him. That’s probably why he left. It was only when I started walking toward the courtroom that I realized I was breathing hard.
And my hands were shaking.
Whoever the guy was, I never wanted to see him again.
CHAPTER TEN
Five minutes later, settling myself at the defense table, I caught my first break; Judge Knox shuffled into court and took his seat, coughed, and immediately laid out his plans for the day.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Just so legal counsel are aware, I’m playing golf this afternoon, so I have to be away by one thirty at the latest. If your case is not dealt with by that time, your client will be automatically remanded in custody until the next rotation. Call the first case.”
Judge John Knox didn’t give a shit about justice. He liked golf, whiskey, and attractive female clerks. His favorite pastime was threatening the lawyers that appeared in his courtroom. Glenfiddich, high blood pressure, and a sour temperament brought a rosy tint to his cheeks and nose. He was short and had a big dose of small-man syndrome. Knox would sit in court for a few hours and deal with cases quickly, then rise, and everybody else got sent to jail, bail applications unheard. He’d been the subject of judicial sanction in the past and he’d been appealed plenty of times, but he just didn’t give a shit.
The courtroom seemed pretty empty. There were maybe a half dozen lawyers and they represented about as many clients. That left around twenty guys downstairs in the cells, waiting on the public defender. I’d already arranged for Popo’s case to get called first, then David Child’s. I’d called the clerk, Denise, earlier that morning. Told her I needed to get clear as soon as possible and that I’d consider it a personal favor. She obliged. I had a good reputation with the staff.
The custody officer brought in Popo. He was wearing wrist and ankle cuffs and he shuffled into his seat on my left. Around twenty feet away, I could see the conveyor line of prisoners waiting to get their cases called. David Child was at the head of that line, and he looked around the courtroom as if it were a torture chamber. His eyes were wide, and even from this distance I could hear his chains tinkling as he trembled.
Julie Lopez, the prosecutor, stood at probably the same height as Judge Knox: a couple of inches over five feet. Around thirty or more blue files sat piled up in front of her in two equally proportioned stacks. Just like her files, Julie always looked super-organized: hair twisted into a loose bun and pinned in place with a pen, makeup understated, dark suits that were businesslike and impeccably tailored. She took the first file from the left-hand collection and began her day.
“Your Honor, first case is Dale ‘Popo’ Barnes. Mr. Flynn appears for the defendant. Prosecution withdraws all charges, Your Honor.”
Knox didn’t sit in this courtroom very often, so he wasn’t familiar with Popo. He said nothing to the prosecutor at first. Narrowing his eyes, he flicked through the pages of the file, and as he read, a look spread over his face that failed to mask his obvious contempt for me and my client.
“Ms. Lopez, did I hear you right? The prosecution withdraws all charges?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said Julie.
“But he had enough dope on him to validate a distribution charge, never mind simple possession.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“So why withdraw the charges?”
To add to his problems, Judge Knox was plenty stupid. Julie looked at me and shrugged. I returned her gaze and shook my head. For a few seconds we just looked at each other and ignored the judge. We were deciding what to do. It would be bad to announce in an open public court that Popo was a longtime police informant and had immunity from prosecution for a wide variety of drug offenses. Maybe I thought the name Popo would give it away. It didn’t seem to work on Knox.
Most judges would take the hint and realize this guy spilled his guts to the NYPD, but Knox wasn’t biting despite an embarrassed smile from Julie.
“Is there something I’m missing here?” said Knox.
Around fifty IQ points was what I wanted to say, but didn’t. Instead my brain suddenly came up to speed and I saw an opportunity for my second persuader of the morning.
“Your Honor, may we speak with you in chambers about this matter? There is a sensitive issue here. Also, I would appreciate the opportunity to discuss the next case on Your Honor’s list in private. It’s a Mr. Child,” and as I said my mark’s name, I looked straight at him and then back at the judge. It was a little early for the reporters to fill up the benches, and even if there were a few crime reporters in the back row, they wouldn’t expect to see David Child in court, so the name wouldn’t ring a bell and they wouldn’t see him unless they were right at the front of the benches. There were no reporters in that position.
Knox recognized him right away, but wisely didn’t want to wake up any journalists who might be in the court. A slight nod of the head was all we needed. Knox got up, the clerk said, “All rise,” and Julie and I followed Knox through the back door of the court, down a small corridor, past the chambers reserved for this court, and into his private office, which doubled as Knox’s little kingdom. There were courthouse rules about judge’s chambers, but none about personal offices, so Knox exploited the loophole. I had time to look around while he got himself comfortable in his seat and adjusted his robes. The little office was painted the same color of cream that seemed to be on every office wall these days. Pictures of Knox with famous golfers hung around the room. There was even a set of clubs against the back wall. There were no family pictures. A smell that was at once familiar and yet elusive seemed to come up off the carpeted floor. Smelled like honey, bleach, and malt whiskey.
“So, Popo first, and then both of you make my day by telling me all about Mr. Child,” said Knox, unable to suppress a grin.
Julie and I remained standing in front of two comfortable-looking leather chairs that faced Knox’s desk. In the judge’s chambers, you didn’t sit until you were asked. As far as I knew, Knox had never asked anyone to sit down. He was that kind of asshole.
Julie tried to balance a blue file, the one relating to Popo, on top of the backrest of the chair in front of her so that she could open it and read her notes. I had neither a file nor any notes for Popo. I had a few of Popo’s old files with me, which I just carried for show. Usually I didn’t create a paper file for Popo because then somebody might audit it and realize that I wasn’t doing anywhere near the hours that I would be billing the NYPD. No file, no audit. If the IRS asked questions, I would say it was misfiled somewhere and they would give me the benefit of the doubt. If NYPD wanted to see the file, I’d tell them to go to hell; it was my client’s file and attorney-client privilege protected it.
I decided to jump right in with the friendly and flattering approach while Julie read her notes.
“Judge, my client Popo is a police informant. He has to carry and use narcotics in his line of work. The DA’s office knows this and they let it slide, for the greater good. My client has provided information that’s led to a number of good arrests.”
Knox’s neck turned the same color as his nose. He was embarrassed about almost dropping the ball on a police informant in open court. I’d handed him a lifeline, a way for him to look smart and save face.
“Mr. Flynn, I simply wanted to check with the prosecutor that the information she was getting from your client was worth the withdrawal of all charges,” said Knox.
“We have a continuing arrangement with Popo and he has an immunity agreement,” said Julie.
“Well, before we talk about Child, are we okay to let Popo walk?” I said.
“Who? Oh, the junkie, sure. Tell me about our billionaire. I glanced at the file. He got a defense?”
“Sure,” I said.
“What’s the prosecution’s attitude to bail?” asked Knox, quickly turning his attention to Julie.
“We’re opposing bail,” said Julie.
“Flat out?” asked Knox.
“Yes, Your Honor. The people feel that the court would be unable to ensure Mr. Child would return for trial even with the most stringent bail conditions.”
The judge leaned forward in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. The tip of a pale tongue escaped through his lips, and Knox made a loud sucking noise as he flicked it back into his mouth. The movement was sudden and somehow reptilian. He pretended to consider what the prosecutor told him.
“What bail conditions would your client consent to, Mr. Flynn?”
This was an attempt to short-circuit the bail hearing. If I told him the conditions that my client would agree to, he would grant bail but on additional conditions over and above what I’d told him my client would accept. After I answered that question, he would probe Julie to find out what conditions she would request if he were minded to grant bail. In this way Knox could get both defense and prosecution to accept a deal on bail so he wouldn’t have to have a hearing at all. That way both the defense and the prosecution would be unhappy but neither one would challenge his decision as we would both be fearful of losing what little ground each of us had gained. Knox might have been slow on the uptake, but he’d learned a judicial trick or two.
“I’m afraid I’ll need to seek instructions from my client on bail terms.”
“Good,” said Knox. “You’ve got ten minutes.”
I checked my watch and estimated that I had around fourteen minutes before Gerry Sinton came roaring into court and then it would all be over before we even got started.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I knew the story already. Had it laid out for me in detail around nine hours ago by Dell. Even so, I wanted to hear it from the client. There were always multiple versions of every story. We are our own little planets, and invariably we can only see things from our own perspective, which includes our prejudices, our vices, our talents, and our limited perceptions. No two people see the same thing. When you add that any one person will give differing accounts of the same circumstances, depending on whom they’re talking to, it gives you an idea of how unclear versions of events can be. A person will tell the same story differently depending on whether they’re talking to a man or a woman, a college professor or a cabdriver, a cop or a lawyer. We unconsciously tailor our speech and body language so that we can gain empathy and understanding from the listener. Trouble is, you need all of the information to make a judgment call on what really happened. And that’s without considering whether or not your storyteller is even telling the truth to begin with.
There are simple techniques that are designed to get the raw data, not the spin.
I used the simplest of those techniques to get David Child talking. We were sitting in a cramped gray consultation room. A dark mahogany table separated us. The table bore the scars of paper clips, knives, and pens, which had been used to dig the names of past felons into its flesh.
I’d just sat down. I hadn’t told Child anything about my talk with Judge Knox.
“So, what happened?” I said.
“What did the judge say?”
Leaning back in my chair, I said nothing. My hands rested on my thighs. It was important not to fold my arms, to keep an open body posture. So that I remained subconsciously on “receive.”
“What’d he say?”
My head tilted to the right.
“Mr. Flynn?”
A few seconds passed in silence. Child looked at the floor. It’s pretty hard to maintain silence when somebody is patiently waiting for you to start talking. His head popped up and he met my gaze with a pleading stare. I raised an eyebrow.
“What happened, David?” I repeated.
He nodded a few times, then put his hands up in surrender.
I didn’t ask Child why he’d been arrested, or why he’d been charged with murder, or what evidence the cops had on him. The question I asked was as open and wide as possible so that I’d get a lot more information.
“Jesus,” said Child, running his hands over his head. “I loved Clara. I’d never met anyone like her. She was perfect. So perfect. Why the hell she ended up with an asswipe like me, I’ll never know. Jesus Christ forgive me, but right now I wish I’d never met her. She’d still be alive.”
He began to cry. Tears flowed freely, and from the swelling around his eyes it appeared as though he’d been crying a lot in the last few hours. Even so, he bent over and his back rocked with huge intakes of breath that he forced out in guttural cries. For all his supposed financial worth and power, right then, with the snot and salt tears on his face, he looked like a miserable boy.
I said nothing.
I didn’t put my arm around him. No words of comfort or reassurance. I remained relaxed and silent.
If I sympathized with him, I’d be doing him no favors. I’d spend my remaining eight minutes watching him cry and blow his nose. Quickest way to make somebody stop crying and start talking is to remain silent. People get embarrassed about letting out that flood of emotion to a stranger.
Child hefted the bottom of his shirt and wiped his face.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said.
I said nothing.
Seven minutes left.
“What happened, David?”
He rolled his neck, blew out a few times to regulate his breathing, and gave me my answer.
“She’s dead because of me,” he said.
As he spoke he didn’t look at me. He kept his eyes low, on the table. The words came out matter-of-factly, like he just told me his address or his date of birth. It wasn’t a heartfelt confession, but a simple statement.
Lawyers don’t usually question whether or not a client is telling the truth. That way lies madness. You do what you have to and trust the system. So, the guilty plead guilty. The innocent fight their case and the jury decides. If a by-product of that process is the emergence of the truth, then so be it, but the truth is not the aim of the process. The verdict is the aim. Truth has no place in the trial because no one is concerned with finding it, least of all the lawyers or the judge.
However, in my former career, before I was a lawyer, the truth was always my goal. As a con man you live and die by portraying the absolute truth to your mark. Not the real truth, of course. No, a version of the truth that suited the con, but that story, that line, that whatever it was, had to look and feel and taste and become the truth for that mark.
