The Good Lawyer: A Novel (23 page)

“Just a couple of adjournments down the hall. Figured one of my clients might be in here by mistake. But thanks anyway.”

He extended his hands over the line of cases on the table. “Whatever I can do.”

Figueroa went on policing the court calendar as lawyers approached him with requests that he place their cases on the bridge to be called. He complied stoically and without preferential treatment. He gazed back up at me as I was about to step away. “Hey, I heard about your bout with Judge Sheflin at the Spiderman arraignment.”

“He wasn’t the Spiderman. He passed a lie detector the day he died. It was in almost all the newspapers.”

“I don’t read the papers. Got enough here to fill my days, and my nights.”

“Tell me about it,” I turned to leave.

“Hey Nick. That blond ever find you?”

I stopped dead. A shiver crept down my lower back. “What blonde are you taking about?”

“About a month back, a knock-out blond was asking for you.” He smirked then glanced toward the judge’s chambers. “Evidently she was asking around until she stumbled on me.”

“What exactly did she say?”

“At first I thought it was personal, like maybe a girlfriend. But when I saw how concerned she was, I figured it was business. Especially when I realized she had no idea what you looked like.”

“But what did she say exactly?” My voice wavered in desperation.

“Christ Nick, it was a while back. I can’t remember exactly.”

“Try. Please.”

“OK, I think it was something like, ‘where can I find Nick Mannino? I need to speak to him today’. Yeah. She said ‘today’, and that it was important.”

My face must have shown my anxiety, because as I stared into space Figueroa asked if I was all right.

I didn’t answer.

“One other thing.” He took a breath, checked the judge’s chambers, and spoke quickly. “At first I thought she was with this guy. You see we were in the fourth floor hallway, about a courtroom away from the elevators. This guy was standing about twenty feet from us. I saw him watching. He got closer as she spoke, close enough to hear. So I figured they were together.”

My stomach wrenched in anticipation, and fear.

“Not that they looked like a match made in heaven. She was a white blue-eyed beauty, dressed to kill. And he was black, kind of big. Stocky. He was wearing a black cap and jeans. Can’t remember much else. When she got in the elevator, he followed. As I walked past I could see them inside.”

“And?”

“And nothing. He took off his cap is all.”

“Did you see his hair?”

“His hair? No.”

“Shit.” I said in exasperation.

Figueroa looked at me curiously. “Ain’t my fault the guy was bald.”

Chapter 45

I
spun through the revolving doors of the Supreme Court Building onto the Grand Concourse and found myself at the curb, not recalling how and when I had scaled the fifty odd steps to get there.

Traffic moved in a quick and orderly fashion, the occasional horn a reminder of the ever-impetuous New York City driver. Lawyers in suits and uniformed police officers milled around the courthouse. Waiting to cross at 161
^st
Street I could smell the exhaust of a hundred cars. I lowered my head. I was standing over a sewer drain embedded in the asphalt, the bottom sludge a timeless mixture of unrecognizable garbage that had long lost its vile smell to the everyday. But the garbage was there nonetheless. Festering. Underground. Piling higher.

The sunny spring day, the seasonal ritual of rising spirits, was lost on me as I walked robotically back to the office.

That blonde had been trying to get me, to speak to me. Had the bald guy in the elevator been the Spiderman? Was she just another one of his victims? But there was no evidence of rape or even attempted rape. And why had none of her identification been found?

Because her killer must have taken it.

I stopped outside Executive Towers, and thought to myself:
but why
?

Because her very identity would provide some link, lead somehow to the identity of her murderer?

But why kill her to begin with? Did it have something to do with me? Was I a link in all this?

I felt like a fool as I realized the extent to which I was grasping at straws. Life is full of awful coincidences—random occurrences that create rippling effects.

That bald man did not have to be the Spiderman. And the Spiderman did not have to be her killer.

Tuesday. 10 A.M. I met Peter Guevara outside Part 60. He was in a blue vested pin striped suit, and I blithely remarked how he looked more the lawyer than I did in my plain gray two-piece. He hugged me, bubbling over with thanks for my “swarm” on the Rodriguez brothers.
Swarm
was the word
he
used.

“We still have the Chavez boy and his mother to contend with, but the D.A.’s case has lost most of its strength.” What I really wanted to say was:
we’ve got this case beat and at worst it will fall apart mid-trial
. But that would have sounded like a guarantee, and in the business of law, there is none.

Upon Guevara’s case being called, and without so much as an advance phone call, Jimmy Ryan moved to dismiss all counts of the indictment that had Carlos and Rafael Rodriguez as complaining witnesses. Guevara threw an arm around my back and squeezed.

“Great,” he whispered.

Judge Graham, peering at Ryan over reading glasses that always seemed on the verge of falling off the end of his nose, said: “The grand jury deliberated and voted to indict this defendant on many very serious charges brought by your office with these Rodriguez boys as complainants. Would it be too much of me to ask why you now see fit to dismiss these charges?”

“Is your honor objecting to my dismissing these charges?” Ryan said defensively.

Graham stood up and threw his glasses down on the bench. “First of all, Mr. Ryan.
You
are not dismissing anything. The State of New York is, which your office and the District Attorney who employs you represent. I, sir, in case you haven’t noticed my black robes, am the judge here. So before I accept dismissal of charges that have been voted on by a grand jury, I want to know why!”

“The judge doesn’t want to dismiss the charges?” Guevara asked frantically.

“Don’t worry,” I whispered back. “Ryan just has to put on the record that the two Rodriguez brothers admitted they lied. If he doesn’t, I will.”

Ryan collected himself. Red-faced, but still the wise guy, he told the judge about the tapes and the minutes I sent him. “Father Kerres is a Roman Catholic priest. In his presence and mine, the two boys, in separate interviews, stated that they lied about the charges they made against this defendant.”

“Very well,” Graham said. “The court accepts dismissal of all charges concerning Carlos and Rafael Rodriguez as complainants. I trust you are proceeding with the charges brought by the Chavez boy?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Those charges stand,” Ryan said with renewed bravado.

“I don’t suppose you have any objection, Mr. Mannino, to what has just taken place?” Graham asked.

“Actually I do, your honor.” Guevara stiffened. “I accept dismissal of most of the charges, but I strenuously object to the continued prosecution of any other charges voted on by this same grand jury. Any vote to indict on the Chavez charges had to be tainted by the perjured testimony of the Rodriquez brothers, who also allege that Sandra Chavez, mother of the third boy, suborned their perjury and even committed perjury herself.”

“Do you have motion papers with you?” Graham asked.

“Yes, Judge. Returnable in ten days, if that’s agreeable to all.”

“Mr. Ryan?” Graham asked.

“The date is OK with me. The People will strenuously oppose the motion, however.”

“Don’t pull a muscle in the process, Mr. Ryan. All right. Let’s arraign Mr. Guevara on the remaining charges.” Graham then read the counts of the indictment concerning the Chavez boy. “There are two counts of sodomy in the first degree.” One was for oral sex and the other for anal sex by forcible compulsion. “Two counts of sexual abuse in the first degree.” Lesser charges amounting to the same act, but characterized under the law by mere sexual contact as opposed to sexual entry. “How do you plead Mr. Guevara?”

“Not guilty!” he shouted.

Graham gave us an adjourn date ten days hence. “Don’t forget to give Mr. Ryan a copy of your motion papers, Mr. Mannino. He just might want to serve a written response.”

“Judge,” I interrupted. “Over a dozen people have contributed to raising fifteen thousand dollars bail. Now that eight of the twelve counts have been dismissed, I respectfully move that the defendant’s bail be exonerated and that he remain released on his own recognizance.”

Graham needed no time to think, nor did he ask Ryan if he wanted to be heard. “Bail is reduced to two thousand five hundred dollars cash or bond. Twelve thousand five hundred dollars of the fifteen thousand is exonerated.”

“Thank you, Judge.”

“Yes, thank you, judge!” Guevara shouted.

Graham eyed him curiously then called for the next case.

“This mean it’s all over?” Guevara asked me as we left the courtroom. His face was so close to mine I could smell his cologne. Aramis. My best friend Joey wore it all the time. It was damn expensive too.

“Not exactly,” I was careful to say. “The most we can hope for on my motion is a dismissal with leave or permission for the D.A.’s office to re-present the Chavez charges to a new grand jury, one who hasn’t heard the perjured testimony of the Rodriguez brothers.”

“So we go to trial then on the Chavez charges,” Guevara said.

“First we might try a shot at the grand jury ourselves.” I was sounding, and feeling, more daring.

“How’s that?”

“Look at you in that suit. You’re confidant, self-assured. I think you’re now ready to testify.”

“You mean to the grand jury?”

“Why not? We’ll be up against Jose Chavez, the pathological liar, and his predicate felon drug-addicted mother. The odds just got a lot better.”

Guevara seemed to be thinking hard. “You’re my lawyer, Nick. Whatever you say, I’ll do.” He stepped into the empty elevator.

“Now get to that polygraph examiner. It wouldn’t hurt to have the judge actually believe you’re innocent. And don’t wait for Cantwell to call you. Call
him
. All right?”

“You got it.” He released the button, and the elevator doors jostled closed between us.

Later that day Shula Hirsch called. Guevara had told her the good news. I was optimistic about getting a second crack at the grand jury with only the Chavez charges to contend with, and told her so. She offered to testify and I thanked her.

Grand juries are under no obligation to hear defense witnesses other than the defendant. Unless the prosecutor called her to testify, which was unlikely, or the grand jury specifically asked for her, she would not be heard.

It was Mrs. Hirsch, the perfect picture of the dedicated inner city schoolteacher, who could testify to the Chavez boy’s proclivity to lie, to his outbursts, to the visible evidence of his severe psychological and emotional problems—problems that made teaching him in the public school system impossible. Evidence of assault, stealing, and deviant sexual activity would render his testimony against Guevara almost worthless.

Hirsch could also discredit Sandra Chavez. As awful as it was to capitalize on someone’s affliction, Hirsch, with crutches and leg braces, would make one riveting, sympathetic witness, and she wouldn’t have to fake a thing. I also had an idea or two about how she might explain away that anal laceration found on Jose the night of Guevara’s arrest. Somehow I had to get her into that grand jury room.

Chapter 46

I
n a thick Irish brogue the Bronx Supreme Court Clerk told me that all but the bail posted by Shula Hirsch, who had given her name as representative for those who contributed from P.S. 92, would be exonerated.

“Why’s that?” I asked with overdone politeness.

He batted the air with his hand. “Why should I expect you to know any more than the rest of the ass-wipe lawyers around here?”

He held up the list of those who posted Guevara’s bail and I noticed Guevara’s name on top for one thousand dollars.

“My client was in jail. How could his name be on the top of the list?”

“Because someone else posted the bail for him and gave his name and address.”

“Does it say who?”

“No. But my guess is it’s the guy who’s next in line.” He put on his reading glasses which were dangling from a green cord around his neck. “
Vincent Tedeschi, Kingsbridge Road Realty
.”

This was the real estate broker who employed Guevara part-time. Guevara mentioned him to me after his release—the first I had learned of this footnote to Guevara’s resume.

Taking on a glazed look, the clerk started chewing on one end of his glasses. “I remember this name,” he said as if coming out of a trance. “Sophie!”