The Plea, page 6
part #2 of Eddie Flynn Series
With my experience I could normally spot a lie a mile away. I expected Child to be an excellent liar, a man I would have to study before I would be able to spot his tells. I’d underestimated him. He was a mass of nerves, shock, and guilt. That made him damn near impossible to read. So I had to rely on my gut instead.
My first impression—this guy was no killer. But I’d been wrong before.
Six minutes.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The interview room echoed with the clank of barred doors sliding shut in the adjacent corridor. Even with the heavy door to the booth firmly closed, it wasn’t enough to keep out those sounds. Crying, singing, and praying.
Child wiped his face. He sniffed and straightened up.
“I knew something bad was going to happen before I left the apartment. I checked my e-mail on my phone; I had seventeen new messages. An odd number. I don’t like odd numbers, so I knew something bad would happen and it would be my fault. I know it’s crazy, but I’ve always had this, well. The doctor diagnosed…”
“We don’t have much time, David. We can get to the details later. Just the basics of what happened to your girlfriend.”
“I left Clara in my apartment—she’d just moved in that day. I was on my way to work—I stopped at the traffic lights a couple of blocks from my building. We have a meeting at Reeler every Friday night at eight thirty; we check the figures for the week, adjust the marketing plan, and bounce ideas around. The light turned green, and I moved across the white line. I got maybe twenty feet across the intersection when this asshole rammed me. He drove through his stoplight and hit my Bugatti. I could smell the booze on him as soon as he got out of the truck and then he threatened me. The police came and they … they asked me what happened. I told them, and then the cop told me the driver saw a gun in the footwell of my car. I told him that was a mistake, but then the cop went to my car. I swear to you, Mr. Flynn, I’ve never seen that gun before. I don’t own a gun. He asked me for my permit. I didn’t have one. I told him it wasn’t mine, and he arrested me. I thought I’d get a fine or something. We were only in the precinct for a few hours. They came and took my clothes, swabbed my face, arms, hands, and took my fingerprints. I thought it was all routine. I called Gerry Sinton and he came to the precinct. Later that night they told me Clara was dead. She’d been shot. Her body was in my apartment … I … I…”
Panic choked him, and I saw the tears beginning to form.
“I left her in my apartment around eight o’clock. I kissed her goodbye. She was alive when I left my place. I swear it.”
“So you were questioned. Gerry was with you. You told the cops what you told me?”
“Yes, I told them the truth. I didn’t have anything to hide.”
If he was a liar, he was one of the best.
“Why’d you tell me she was dead because of you?”
“The goddamn odd number. I knew it. Somebody must have broken into my apartment looking for me, to rob me—and they … they found her. I didn’t kill her. I don’t have a gun. I didn’t do it … I … no … not me … I couldn’t.”
His chest began pumping, and his eyes glazed over. His hands shook violently, and his face turned a shocking white just before he threw up on the desk. Then his head dropped. I caught him before he fell out of the chair, set him down on his side, kicked the consultation room door open, and called for help.
Through guttering breaths, he struggled to force out the words.
“Gerry … Gerry … told … me … no bail … no bail … no media … won’t get bail … flight risk.”
“Calm down. Shut up and breathe.”
A guard rushed in, knelt beside Child, and looked at me. David was going into shock.
The guard, a young officer with large and kindly eyes, left and quickly returned with a mask and a small portable oxygen tank. Together we got David into a sitting position, back against the wall. He took two desperate sucks on an inhaler before the guard slipped the oxygen mask over David’s face. We sat with him for a few minutes, letting him get control on his own. After a while his breathing became deeper, slower.
Slipping the mask onto his chest, he said, “Gerry told me I don’t have a chance for bail.”
This was my shot. I stood, opened my file, slipped a four-page document on top of the file, and placed it on David’s knees.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a retainer agreement. You sign this, I become your lawyer. I’ll get you bail and I’ll keep this out of the papers. All you have to do is sign it,” I said, handing him my pen.
“But Gerry said I can’t get bail. I’ve got four private airplanes. I’m a flight risk. And if somebody makes a bail application, the press … they’ll … be all over it,” he said, the fear threatening to close down his chest.
“Just sign it. You won’t last a day in jail. I can get you out. But I need to do it legally. Sign this, and I’ll look after you, David.”
The pen shook in his hand as he scrawled a hasty signature. I took the document and the pen and handed it to the guard beside him.
“As he’s a little shaky, witness this for me.”
The guard looked at that paper like it was anthrax and held up a hand.
“Look, it’s for my protection,” I said.
“Go ahead and sign it,” said Neil, standing in the doorway. He’d come to make sure I was okay.
I looked at the guard’s name tag—Darryl Cole. I got Darryl to sign, initial, and date the document.
“Is the doc around?” I asked.
“He’s seeing one of the regulars,” said Neil.
“Can you let him take a quick look at my boy, here? Maybe give him a blue to calm him down?”
“Sure thing. Come on, son. You’re in good hands now,” said Neil.
Together, we lifted David to his feet. Darryl, who was smaller than me, could have lifted the kid one-handed. He probably weighed a hundred and ten pounds. His bones felt sharp at the elbow, and there was almost no musculature there at all, as though he were held together with sinew and paper glue.
Sitting in the medical room, head back, eyes wide as though he was willing them to suck air into his lungs, David spoke. A whisper. I didn’t catch it.
“Take it easy. The doc will be here in a second,” I said.
Taking a noisy gasp of air from the oxygen machine, David pulled the mask to the side and said, “Is it okay if I call you Eddie?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Okay. I signed your agreement. That means you’re my lawyer, right?”
I nodded.
“Please, Eddie, help me. I didn’t kill Clara. Help me. I’m begging you.”
And there it was, the plea. A cry for help from a terrified kid.
Vibration from my cell phone.
Another text from Dell.
Gerry Sinton just walked into court 12.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A female lawyer from the PD’s office was taking five to sort a quick case with the prosecutor, Julie Lopez, in court twelve. Judge Knox flicked through the case files on his desk while the lawyers in front of him quickly bargained away a trial.
At first I didn’t see Gerry Sinton. I’d never met him in the flesh. Last night Dell had shown me a photo, but it wasn’t very recent and it didn’t in any way convey the sheer feeling of power that surrounded the man like a sweet cloud of five-hundred-dollar aftershave. His blue pin-striped suit was impeccably tailored to fit his tall and elegant frame. Black curls, streaked with gray, sat on top of a large and dangerous head. Wide yet stylish glasses were perched on the end of his nose. He was tanned, lined with age, but he didn’t look like he was in his late fifties. Money had a way of halting the aging process. He was kneeling at the clerk’s bench, talking to her, checking the listings, making sure he hadn’t missed his client’s appearance in front of the judge. I could see the clerk telling him that the matter had been already mentioned but not determined. He leaned closer, read the name of the lawyer the clerk had entered beside David Child’s name. The clerk looked around the room, spotted me, said something to Gerry, and pointed in that way that only clerks can—There’s Mr. Flynn. He’s the attorney of record. Go fight with him, pal. Leave me out of it.
Gerry’s big head came up, and he whipped off his glasses and looked at me like he was ready to chew glass. There was no snarl. It was just a feeling of menace that came with the man. He put his glasses back on and started walking.
Folding my arms, I shifted my weight onto one hip and watched him as he approached. The closer he got, the more his neck flushed red, and by the time he stood in front of me, a fat vein bulged out of his starched collar. He towered over me by half a foot at least, and stood close, almost like a point guard blocking the basket. From his distressed leather briefcase, he produced a lengthy document, which he tucked beneath his arm. The huge black stone in his pinkie ring caught the overhead lights and blinded me for a second. I thought the ring probably cost more than my first house.
He took off his glasses again. That’s when I saw it.
It’s no easy thing to kill somebody. Most murders happen when the perp is drunk or high or both. Or an argument gets out of hand, or someone suffers an extreme emotional disturbance. Most people couldn’t even contemplate murder. But there are people who are simply immune to the psychological blocks that stop us from killing. They have no empathy. I didn’t need to know Gerry Sinton’s history to see the killer. Sometimes you just know. The man in front of me could not feel anything for another living soul. There was only self. Nothing else.
“You Eddie Flynn?” He spoke with a trace of South Baltimore still hiding in the deep tones.
“Right,” I said.
“Cut the bullshit. How much?”
“Excuse me.”
He took my elbow and guided me to the corner of the courtroom.
His voice was low and slow. “So you got a tip from a buddy that a celebrity is in holding. You go down there, try to steal yourself a big fish. I get that. But this is my fish. You can’t have him. I don’t have time for this. How much do you want to walk away? Ten? Fifteen? How about twenty grand?”
“No thanks.”
His expression didn’t change. A cold hate, hidden behind a dead face. I imagined that he’d worn the same expression when he’d ordered the hit on Farooq, the informer.
“You illegally solicited my client. I can have you suspended and disbarred. Right now. Or you can take twenty thousand and walk away.”
I stood firm.
He calmed, the anger slipping away the more he looked me over. He probably saw a small-time lawyer hustling his way through the criminal lists, trying to make the rent.
“Take the money. Walk away. This is too big for you.”
“I think it’s you who’s in over your head, pal. This isn’t a boardroom. This is a criminal court. You’re in my house now. If I were you, I’d click those ruby slippers together and think of the Upper East Side,” I said.
No visible reaction. Only the slight tremor in his voice gave a hint of annoyance.
“I’ve got a solid retainer for this case, Flynn. You know how the big boys operate. He’s my client.”
“I’ve got the most recent retainer. Signed by David Child this morning.”
He leaned closer, not used to arguing with two-bit lawyers like me.
“My offer of twenty thousand stands for the next sixty seconds.”
I shrugged.
“You should take the money. Bad things will happen if you don’t.”
I felt my hands tighten into fists, and my voice rose. “Back off. You don’t scare me.”
“You have no idea who you’re dealing with…”
The sound of the judge’s voice snapped Sinton to attention.
“Hey, this is a court of law. If you two have a problem, take it outside. I’m reading here,” said Knox.
“Your Honor,” said Sinton, “there has been malpractice on the part of Mr. Flynn in relation to his illegal approach to my client. I’d like to discuss this matter in chambers.”
“And who are you, sir? I’ve never seen you in this court before,” said Judge Knox.
“My name’s Gerry Sinton, Your Honor. I represent Mr. Child. Mr. Flynn, here, has tried to—”
“Gerry Sinton? Of Harland and Sinton?”
“Yes, Your Honor. I wish to—” But Judge Knox cut the feet right out from under him.
“I knew Mr. Harland Senior—when I was in practice, that is. He would be very proud if he could see the firm now,” said Knox, smiling for once. “Tell you what, I’m just finishing a sentencing here. Won’t take long. You and Mr. Flynn go on back, and I’ll be in chambers in five minutes. The clerk will show you.”
Before following the clerk, Sinton turned and gave me a satisfied look. He was convinced that the old friend of the firm, Judge Knox, would see things his way. I couldn’t let that happen. If I got hauled off the case, it was over for Christine.
Making my way down the aisle toward the exit that led to Knox’s chambers, I took big breaths in, held them, and let them out slowly. Unless I came up with something good in the next five minutes, the watertight Harland and Sinton retainer would put me out of the game permanently.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The clerk led Gerry Sinton along the same anonymous corridor to Knox’s chambers. She let us in and then left. With a frustrated and tired sigh, Gerry sat in one of Judge Knox’s fine chairs that faced his desk. It was just us in the room. He didn’t speak a word, just sat there and ignored me. He’d never appeared in front of Knox, didn’t know that sitting in that chair without permission was likely to give Knox an aneurysm.
I saw my first play and decided to keep my mouth shut.
After five minutes I heard Judge Knox mumbling as he made his way along the corridor. I filled a cup of water from the dispenser and hung at the back of the room. As the door opened, Gerry stood, then sat down in tandem with Knox. I saw the look. The judicial eyebrows rising and Knox’s teeth taking a bite at his lower lip.
“Gentlemen, I don’t like lawyers arguing among themselves in my courtroom. It’s not seemly. If you want to argue, you do that when I call your case. Now, what seems to be the problem? Mr. Flynn appears on my docket as counsel of record for Child. What’s the issue, Mr. Sinton?”
A bulky agreement appeared from Gerry’s briefcase, and he placed it reverently beneath the judge’s gaze. Sinton sat a little taller in his chair and buttoned his jacket. His tone changed as he spoke to the judge; it was lighter, warmer.
“Your Honor, this is a retainer signed by Mr. Child in 2013. It empowers my firm and only my firm to act for him in all legal matters. If Mr. Child wishes to change counsel, he must first give us thirty days’ notice. If he chooses not to provide such notice, this agreement gives us a lien on any files and documents created in that relationship. Basically, this clause gives the exclusive right to act for Mr. Child. Before signing this agreement, this clause was specifically read to the client and he was provided with separate legal advice on its implications. Any retainer signed by Mr. Child today is invalid. Mr. Flynn has breached a preexisting attorney-client relationship; he has illegally solicited my client, and I intend to convene an emergency state bar committee this afternoon and have Mr. Flynn suspended pending disciplinary action.”
Sinton leaned back, crossed his long, thick legs, and delicately placed his hand on his lap. His delivery was polished and clean. His deep voice sounded like pebbles falling into a velvet-lined hat; it was rich, with a pure tone and, underneath, a little grit. Nothing of the cold executioner now remained. Judge Knox skimmed the relevant sections, then dropped the paper on his desk, rubbed his chin, and looked at me as I leaned against his bookcase at the back of the room. I straightened up just before he addressed me.
“What do you say to this, Mr. Flynn? Have you read this document?”
“No,” I said.
Knox waited for me to say more. I said nothing.
“Would you like to read it? Mr. Sinton’s making some pretty serious allegations.”
I drained my water from the plastic cup, tossed it in the trash.
“Mr. Sinton was not here when Mr. Child’s case was called. I was. I spoke to Mr. Child and he practically begged me to help him. He signed a retainer with me, and one of the detention officers witnessed the signature. What would’ve happened if Mr. Child’s arraignment went ahead without Mr. Sinton being present? To me, that would be inefficient representation of counsel. You have to actually be here to represent your client.”
The judge shot Sinton a look. He hated people being late in his court. If you arrived late, you lost. Simple as that.
“If Mr. Sinton pushes this argument, I could persuade my client to lodge a complaint with the Bar Standards Committee about Mr. Sinton’s tardiness. My retainer is the most relevant, as it deals with criminal allegations, and it’s signed and witnessed today. My guess is Mr. Sinton can’t handle the fact that he’s been fired,” I said, placing my hands on the back of the chair next to Sinton.
“Your Honor,” said Sinton, leaning forward in his chair, shaking his head.
“Your ass, Mr. Sinton,” said Judge Knox.
“Excuse me?” said Sinton, with a little more surprise and indignation than was good for him.
“I can’t hear you, Mr. Sinton,” said the judge.
“I said…” began Gerry, loudly.
“I wasn’t talking about your volume. I was referring to your ass. These chambers and offices are an extension of my courtroom, Mr. Sinton. No lawyer has ever addressed me unless they are standing on their feet. You are the first to ever address me while lounging in my chair. And who gave you permission to sit, by the way? No one sits without my permission. If you had any experience in this court, you might’ve known that.”
The skin pulled tight on Sinton’s forehead. He knew I had let him sit down; he knew I’d let him piss off the judge. And Judge Knox knew it, too, as I could see a little smile playing around those twin slugs that passed for lips.
