Lassiter 08 - Lassiter (2 page)

“Motion to exclude the breathalyzer test,” I began, going through the motions of making my motions.

“Grounds?”

“No evidence the operator was properly trained, the equipment properly maintained, and the test properly administered.”

Boilerplate stuff. No chance.

“Denied.”
De-nahd
.

“Motion to exclude my client’s statements to the arresting officer.”

“Denied.”

I checked the gallery. Mystery Woman was still there, eyes drilling me.

Who the hell are you?

I’d had multiple concussions on the football field. Still, I thought I remembered all my disgruntled ex-clients and infuriated ex-girlfriends. Maybe she was a Florida Bar investigator, building a case against me for yet another insult to the dignity of the court. Or maybe just one of those women with bloodlust. You see them at boxing matches and bullfights and murder trials. Not usually a rinky-dink DUI.

At the next break, I intended to plop down beside her. If she didn’t serve me with a subpoena, I might ask her out for a drink.

“Motion for directed verdict. Do you want to hear argument, Judge?”

“About as much as Ah want to hit Dixie Highway during rush hour.”

“For the record, I’d like to state my grounds.”

“You can pour syrup on a turd, but that don’t make it a pancake. Got any more motions you want denied, Mr. Lassiter?”

“I’m plumb out.” Adopting a Southern accent of my own. Judge Philbrick peered at me over his spectacles, wondering if I was mocking him.

At the prosecution table, Flagler gave me his Ivy League snicker. If I wanted, I could dangle him out the window by his ankles. But then, I’d been picking up penalties for late hits while he was singing tenor with the Whiffenpoofs. Okay, so I’m not Yale Law Review, but I’m proud of my diploma. University of Miami. Night division. Top half of the bottom third of my class.

“You two want to talk a minute before Ah bring the jury in for closing?” Judge Philbrick picked up a cell phone and wheeled around in his chair to give us some privacy.

Flagler sidled up to me and said, “Perhaps it is a propitious time to discuss a deal.”

“If my client wanted to plead guilty, he wouldn’t need me.”

“We could recess, have a latte downstairs, and work it out.”

“I don’t drink latte, with or without a hint of nutmeg.”

“If I win, I’m asking for jail time.”

“Ooh, scary.”

Shaking his head, Flagler returned to the prosecution table and picked up his neatly printed note cards. The jurors filed back in, and Judge Philbrick ordered them to listen carefully to closing arguments, but to rely on their own memories, not those of the lying shysters. Actually, he said “learned counsel,” but everybody knew what he meant.

I glanced toward the gallery. Yep, the woman was still there in the front row. I gave her a neighborly nod. She took it and gave nothing back.

Flagler bowed obsequiously to the judge and thanked the jury for leaving their fascinating jobs and coming to the courthouse in the service of justice.

Or a reasonable facsimile thereof
.

After twenty minutes, he sat down and I stood up. “How did my client blow a point-six when stopped by the police officer but only a point-zero-nine at the station?”

Judging from their blank looks, math was not the jurors’ favorite subject.

“I’ll tell you how,” I continued. “There’s
no
way! At point-six, my client’s breath could have ignited charcoal in a hibachi.”

Fearing he’d belch beer into the cop’s face, my too-damn-clever client had squirted enough Listerine into his mouth to disinfect a knife wound. The mouthwash vaulted the kid’s
mouth
alcohol off the charts, while the
blood
alcohol test accurately pinned the number at a notch above the lawful limit.

Oftentimes, complete dickwads are undeservedly lucky, while the good get crapped on by life’s endless shit storm. So it was with Pepito Dominguez, who inadvertently, but fortuitously, screwed up the alcohol tests.

“If the tests don’t fit, you must acquit!” I boomed.

Rest in peace, Johnnie Cochran.

After some more double talk and sleight of hand, I thanked the good citizens for not falling asleep and sat down. The judge recited his instructions, and the bailiff returned the jurors to their little dungeon to deliberate.

I spun through the swinging gate and plopped down next to Mystery Woman. Up close, she had full lips and a flawless complexion, without the hint of foundation, blush, or war paint. Her eyes were green with a touch of a golden sunset, her dark hair pulled straight back and held by a squiggly elastic band. Late twenties or early thirties.

“Hey there.” I gave her a lopsided grin that has been known to charm a number of barmaids.

“Hello, Mr. Lassiter.” No smile. No warmth. No nothing.

“Have we met before?”

“My name is Amy Larkin.”

She waited a moment, as if the name might provoke a reaction. It didn’t.

“So what brings you to the courthouse, Amy Larkin?”

“You do, Mr. Lassiter. I need to ask you some questions.”

Something in the way she said “questions” convinced me we weren’t going to be chatting over Happy Hour.

“Fire away,” I said.

She handed me the photo she had been holding. A small cocktail table
in front of a stage. Pole dancer in the background. Front and center, two young women in string bikinis were draped over a thick-necked guy with shaggy hair and a bushy mustache the color of beach sand. The Sundance Kid with a shit-eating grin. Young. Cocky. Stupid.

I should know. The guy was me.

Embarrassing to look at now. I was a glassy-eyed drunk in a Dolphins jersey. Number 58. Not even traveling incognito. A red scab ran horizontally across the bridge of my nose. If you make enough helmet-first tackles, your face mask will take divots out of your flesh.

“Long time ago. Birthday party my teammates threw for me,” I said. “Where’d you get the picture?”

She ignored my question and shot back her own. “Do you know the girls?”

One of them, a big-boned blonde, had her arms locked around my neck, her enhanced breasts squashed against my chest. The other one was younger. Slender. Auburn hair. Girl-next-door looks. She was kissing my cheek.

“The one with coconut boobs was a stripper. Sonia Something-or-other. She hung around with one of my teammates. I don’t know the younger one’s name.”

“Krista.”

I flipped the photo over. On the back, someone had scrawled,
“The Whore of Babylon.”

“Okay. The girl’s name is Krista. We’re in a picture together. So what?”

She gave me a look hard enough to leave bruises. “She was my sister.”

“Was?”

“She’s gone.”

“Gone meaning dead?”

“Disappeared and presumed dead.”

Except for the two of us, the courtroom was empty now and silent as a mausoleum.

“I’m sorry. I’m very sorry to hear that.” She studied me through hard, cold eyes. “But what’s all this have to do with me?”

“I think you know, Mr. Lassiter.”

“No, I don’t. So why not stop dancing around and just tell me?”

“You seem agitated, Mr. Lassiter. Why is that?”

“Because you’re playing me and you’re not very good at it. Where’d you learn your interrogation technique,
Law & Order
?”

“Why would I need to interrogate you? Have you committed a crime?”

I stood up. “Cut the crap. If you’re not going to tell me what’s going on—”

“It’s quite simple, Mr. Lassiter.” Her eyes locked on mine, daring me to leave. “You’re the last person who saw Krista alive.”

I long-legged it down the corridor, Amy Larkin in pursuit. The Justice Building was emptying now, just a few straggling girlfriends and wives of defendants who show up at hearings, some blowing kisses, others hurling insults about unpaid child support and broken promises.

“So you’re not going to talk to me, is that it?” Amy raised her voice to my back.

“I don’t know anything about your sister’s disappearance. Got nothing more to say.”

“What happened that night? You can tell me that.”

“It was my birthday party. There were some girls. There always were.”

“That’s it?”

I stepped onto the down escalator, Amy right behind.

“It was a long time ago. I don’t remember one night from another, one girl from another, okay?”

I hopped off the escalator and turned the corner, coming alongside Joseph Gillespie, proprietor of Let’em Go Joe Bail Bonds. He tipped his Florida Marlins cap and let me pass, so I could hit the next escalator in full stride. Amy Larkin was a step behind. Three more floors, then the lobby, then the parking lot. She was going to be on my tail for a while.

“So you’re not interested in clearing your name?” she called after me.

“I don’t know what happened to your sister. Hell, I don’t even remember her.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care!”

“Was she just another easy fuck for you?”

“Jesus!”

Three steps ahead, on the escalator, a young female probation officer turned around and glared at me.

“Did you hurt her?” Amy demanded.

I kept quiet.

“Did you kill her?”

Most people would say, “Hell, no!” But having spent fifteen years asking questions under oath and having read thousands of transcripts, I knew the questions wouldn’t end with my simple denial.

Who else was there?

What happened in the strip club that night?

Did you ever see my sister again?

It would be endless, and there would be questions I wouldn’t want to answer. Not truthfully, anyway. It was all so long ago. That guy in the picture. It was me, but a
different
me. Today, I would behave differently. I would be a better man. Or would I?

“Did you know how old Krista was?” Amy pressed me.

Again, I forced myself to keep quiet. It’s the same advice I give my clients. Even the innocent ones? Yeah. Because no one is a hundred percent innocent. I wasn’t. Not that night.

Amy was still jabbering when we hit the deserted ground floor. The lobby lawyers, guys who scrounge for clients near the elevator bank, had given up for the day.

She grabbed me by the sleeve of my suit coat. “If you had a shred of decency, you’d tell me everything you know.” Her voice tight, her pain palpable.

She had that right. A shred of decency was about my ration.

“Walk with me,” I said, figuring she wouldn’t let up. “But stop pecking at me.”

We exited the building on the 12th Street side and crossed into the parking
lot. My old Biarritz Eldo was resting under a skinny palm tree at the far end of the lot, by the Miami River. A rust bucket freighter, its top deck covered with used bicycles, was steaming east, toward the ocean, and a distant port in the islands.

“I’m truly sorry about your sister,” I said. “And for your pain.”

She waited. I wasn’t about to tell her
everything
I knew. But, ignoring my own counsel, I planned to tell her enough to get her off my ass.

“I
do
remember her.” Hell, yes, I thought. Krista would be hard to forget.

Still, Amy waited.

I took a deep breath. I looked Amy Larkin in the eyes. Then I told her the story.

It had been Rusty’s idea. Throw his pal a birthday party at Bozo’s, a strip club on LeJeune Road near the airport. Not that I objected. I was a free agent, one year out of Penn State, busting my ass to hang on to the Dolphins’ roster. Rusty MacLean was a flashy wide receiver with deceptive speed, best known for slanting hard across the middle, his long red hair flapping out of his helmet like flames trailing an engine. He was a bad boy and, of course, women loved him.

Rusty knew the guy who owned Bozo’s. Hell, he knew all the guys who owned strip clubs, massage parlors, and peep shows. Rusty paid for the booze and half a dozen strippers. Lap dances included. Anything in the Champagne Room in back was between the stripper and the partygoer. Tips
not
included.

Rusty had been seeing Sonia What’s-her-name for a couple months. He called her his favorite, but that’s like Tiger Woods calling a seven-iron his favorite club or his wife his favorite woman. There were plenty more in the bag, when the need arose.

On that night long ago, I remember Rusty swooping down on the table where I sat with Sonia and the new girl. Sonia was all plastic boobs and hair extensions. The kid, Krista, had a sprinkling of freckles and a wide, innocent toothpaste commercial smile. Even toasted, I realized she didn’t belong here with a bunch of degenerates like Rusty, my teammates … and me.

The offensive line sat at the bar, looking like giant beer kegs on a loading
dock. Models of teamwork, the guys maintained their usual positions, the center in the middle of the group, flanked by both guards, and then the tackles. The tight end must have been taking a piss. One of our defensive backs—a showboater, but aren’t they all?—was demonstrating his karaoke prowess, with a soulful rendition of “Midnight Train to Georgia.” Half a dozen strippers were offering companionship in exchange for tips.

I had just won a drinking game called “Who Shit?” Yeah, I know, very mature. In those days, fueled by testosterone and tequila, I often engaged in clever activities, such as pounding holes in plasterboard with my forehead.

Rusty staggered over, grabbed Krista by the shoulders, and hoisted her out of her chair. “Wanna ride the wild stallion?”

Her body stiffened
.

“How old are you, kid?” I asked, realizing she wanted no part of Rusty’s rodeo
.

“Twenty-one.”

“Right. And I’m gonna make All-Pro. Rusty, why not pick on someone old enough to vote. Or at least old enough to drive?”

“Stay out of this, benchwarmer.” Rusty slung her onto his back and gave her a horsey ride to the Champagne Room, a dark place separated from the VIP Room by a beaded curtain
.

I gave Sonia a look, but she just shrugged
.

Rusty will be Rusty.