The Up and Comer (13 page)

The assistant D.A. couldn't help but smirk. The innocent bystander, he had a front-row seat to what had become nothing short of my complete humiliation. The floor had turned to quicksand. If I couldn't save myself, I had to at least save Sally.

"I'm sorry you see it that way, Your Honor," I said. "Out of respect for your opinion, I won't press you on the matter. What I would like to do, therefore, is to move on and request that my client, as a first-time offender, be admitted into the state's alcohol education program."

Judge Bainwright slowly began to shake his head. "Like I said, Mr. Randall, I won't spoil your imaginative efforts. However, I won't reward them either. I'm inclined to deny your request for the AE program and send this case to trial."

"What?"
exclaimed Sally, at that point able to hear the proceedings. It not being easy to speak in hushed tones for a prolonged period of time, what had started as a private sidebar conversation had become increasingly more public. I turned to her with two palms raised in the air and motioned for her to calm down. All was not lost. Humiliated as I surely was, my synapses were still firing.

"That is entirely your prerogative, sir," I said. "However, while it was certainly never my intent to argue the facts of this case before you today, given the circumstances, I believe there is some exculpatory evidence that should be brought to your attention at this time." I paused quickly only to take a breath. Any longer and Bainwright could have interceded and prevented me from continuing. I shifted into speed mode.

"To begin with," I said, "the arresting officer neglected to note the actual time of the accident, choosing instead to indicate the time when my client arrived at the police station. Consequently, the total elapsed time between the accident and the blood test procedure far exceeded the maximum allotted amount of two hours as spelled out by the state. While that alone is sufficient cause for a mistrial, I should also point out that when, in fact, that blood test was administered, it was done by a nurse who applied rubbing alcohol to the arm of my client. As the test itself is to establish the level of alcohol in the body, I would contend that the nurse's action jeopardized the validity of the results."

The rubbing alcohol bit was a definite trick up the sleeve, and it was evident in watching Judge Bainwright that it was certainly a "new one" as far as he was concerned.

"I could go on, Your Honor," I said, my voice gaining in confidence with each word. "The rest, while certainly arguable, is boilerplate. I think I've made my point. Sending this case to trial would not only be disadvantageous for the state, it would be a waste of time for all involved. Of course, that's simply my humble opinion.

"As I said, it was not my intention to argue the facts of this case before you today. I made it clear that enrollment in the alcohol education program was what we wanted, and that remains unchanged. Perhaps, in light of everything discussed so far, you could see clear to reconsider your position."

I exhaled. There were probably two or three times when Bainwright wanted to stop me, and each time I saw him about to do so I began to speak that much faster. By my last sentence, the sheer spectacle of the speed at which I was talking was easily more engaging than what I was actually saying.

Decision time.

As I stood there waiting, the image of Jack Devine ripping me a new asshole flashed through my mind. It was followed by that of Lawrence Metcalf shaking his head and muttering to himself that he always knew I was never really a player, let alone good enough for his daughter. The bottom line as I saw it was that Bainwright could have thrown every word I said right back in my face without batting an eyelash. I could practically hear him.
Being that you're so proud of that evidence of yours, hotshot, why don't we go ahead and see how it holds up in trial!

But it was a surprise move that followed. Bainwright, of all things, seemed to defer to the assistant D.A. Nothing was said. It was rather a simple "What do you think?" look. And though I was never entirely fluent in body language, with one subtle shrug of his shoulder the assistant D.A. seemed to respond as follows: It's your call, Judge, but if it was up to me I'd let the kid have this one and put the rich bitch in the alcohol program. She may actually learn something, and in the meantime we can move on to the next case so we can finish this fucking session before Christmas, which, come to think of it, happens to be the time of year when I get to hear from all my law school buddies who went on to become defense attorneys like this slickster named Randall standing next to me and receive those big holiday bonuses that on top of their regular salaries make my compensation look like the pathetic, paltry sum that it is.
Comprende?

Like I said, though, I was never entirely fluent in body language. The shrug from the assistant D.A. may simply have meant, "Beats me." Regardless, it was immediately after this shrug that Bainwright said to no one in particular, "Request for the AE program granted…. Next case." It was swift and it was decisive. It was also a lucky break.

I snatched up my litigation bag, grabbed Sally, and bolted from the courtroom before Bainwright could change his mind. Once out in the hallway I immediately headed over to a garbage bin. Shake, shake. Out went the Tic Tacs. From that day forward it was strictly Certs.

"What were you whispering to the judge about for so long?" Sally wanted to know.

"I was merely trying to get him to see things our way," I told her.

"He didn't seem to like you very much."

"He wasn't exactly a big fan of yours, either," I reminded her. "What the hell were you laughing about, anyway?"

That stumped look of hers again. "I can't remember," she said, gazing up at the ceiling. "Weird, huh?"

That was one word for it.

Before we could leave there was paperwork to be done. We went to the requisite office and filled out a bunch of forms. Enrollment in the alcohol education program cost four hundred fifty dollars. That was news to Sally. The notion of having to pay for your punishment didn't sit well with her. "It's not the amount, of course," she was quick to point out. "It's the principle of the thing. I mean, you don't pay money to go to jail, do you?" I shook my head no. After she wrote out the check and signed her name, she couldn't help one more observation. "Four hundred and fifty bucks. That's an entire day at Georgette Klinger, you know."

We left the courthouse and continued to talk. Actually, Sally did most of the talking. I listened. In doing so I determined that while sobriety was slowly starting to reclaim Sally, it had a ways to go. We entered the parking lot. As much as I needed to proceed with my day, I wasn't about to let her get behind the wheel of a car. I told her I would drive her home in her car and have a cab bring me back to the courthouse for mine. Much to my surprise, she didn't protest. In fact, her only concern was my having to take the cab.

"Don't be silly, Hector will take you back," she said.

Hector, huh? At that moment, never had a name been more synonymous with manual labor.

The ride to Bedford took twenty minutes. (Jaguar Vanden Plas, in case you were wondering. Nice car when it's not in the shop.) Between instructions to turn left or right, Sally was busy telling me what various homes had recently sold for. Eventually, she said, "Ours is the one up on the right." I pulled into the driveway. Belgian block. No mere apron followed by pavement. This was the whole shebang. I eased down on the brakes and looked around.

Crime may or may not pay. Unless, of course, you're a defense attorney. Then it pays for everything. In the case of Jack Devine, that meant a glorious old Victorian perched magnificently on a slight upward slope. It was huge, sprawling, and surrounded by what was undoubtedly a cash cow for one very lucky landscape architect. Towering trees, sculpted shrubs, blooming flowers, and everywhere in between, a spectacular putting green of a lawn. No wonder Jack had such an excellent short game.

I shifted the car into park and turned off the engine. Sally undid her seat belt. She turned and looked at me with a weird smile. I was immediately uncomfortable.

"You wouldn't want to come in and screw your boss's wife by any chance, would you?" she asked.

She was serious. At least, I thought she was serious. No, she was definitely serious.

"I'm flattered, Sally," I replied. "I'm also pretty sure it would be right up there on the list of all-time bad career moves."

She flipped down the visor and checked her lipstick in the vanity mirror. "So you're saying no to me?"

"In a sense… yes."

She continued to look into the mirror. "Aren't you afraid that I could get mean, irrational, dare I say spiteful, and tell Jack that you did something horrible today?"

"But I didn't."

"That's beside the point!" she snapped. "Aren't you afraid that I could jeopardize your precious career?"

"Of course I am."

She flipped the visor back up, looked at me, and frowned. I'm sure she was expecting a more combative answer, or if not that, one delivered with a discernible quiver in my voice. She had gotten neither. Sally shook her head and reached for the door, though not without leaving me with a parting thought.

"You pussy."

Minutes later, I remained sitting alone in the car, unsure of my next move. I was about to get out, when a short Hispanic man in overalls came from around the side of the garage. He opened the passenger-side door and got in without uttering a word. He smelled of soil and sweat.

"You must be Hector," I said.

"Si,"
he told me.

THIRTEEN

The very next morning, a Friday, I sat in my office with Peter Sheppard discussing the Brevin Industries case. We were defending them against a shareholder's derivative suit alleging that the company intentionally misled investors with an overly optimistic securities prospectus. It was exciting stuff like that that filled the small remaining portion of my brain that wasn't already consumed by Sally Devine or Tyler Mills.

Sheppard, or Shep, as everyone called him, was another attorney at the firm, a couple years my senior. He specialized in civil law. As there was an SEC investigation under way, I was helping him out with the criminal implications involved in the case. We got along famously. The summer before his freshman year in high school he had been paralyzed from the waist down in a freak water-skiing accident. "I ventured a little too close to shore," is how he described it. At the time, doctors had told him he'd never walk again, and so far they were right. That didn't mean he was ever going to stop trying, he was fond of saying.

Without question, Jack Devine wouldn't have hired Shep out of Stanford Law if he hadn't thought he was a damn good lawyer in the making. He was. That he was also in a wheelchair, however, didn't hurt his chances. According to Shep, Jack had referred to his handicap only once when they first met. It was when he asked point blank if it would bother Shep if juries were swayed in their judgment merely out of sympathy for his condition.

"Fuck, no," Shep claimed to have answered. I'm pretty sure it was the response Jack was hoping for. Not because he was looking to exploit Shep, but because he couldn't afford to hire someone unable to accept a situation for what it was. In a dreamworld, no one would think differently of Shep because he couldn't walk. In the awake world — the only world where lawyers lived — most people could never get past it. Often giving in to it. That was the situation. You didn't have to like it, you just had to accept it. Or in Shep's case, embrace it, which was all the better. Because in the final tally, you'd like to think the world owed him a little bit more than a great parking spot at the mall.

We were interrupted by a single, loud knock. "Good morning, gentlemen," said a familiar voice.

I looked up to see Jack standing in my doorway. He wasn't smiling.

"Morning, Jack," said Shep.

I uttered something in kind.

"Shep, will you excuse us for a second?" Jack said.

"Certainly," said Shep. He looked at me with a quick raise of his eyebrows and proceeded to joystick his wheelchair into a two-point turn. "We'll catch up on the Brevin case later," he said to me before motoring out of my office. Jack stepped aside to let Shep through the doorway. He closed the door behind him.

"I had a long conversation with my wife last night," said Jack.

I swallowed hard. "Oh?" was all I could ultimately get out of my mouth.

Jack started to walk toward me. I immediately tried to calculate the odds of surviving a thirty-one-story rapid descent should I need to escape out the window. Or worse, should I be thrown out.

Jack sat down in one of the chairs facing my desk and continued, "I think you have some explaining to do."

She had fucked me over. That's all there was to it. Because I had spurned her advances, Sally Devine had followed through with her threat. I was finished. I stared at Jack and prepared for his wrath.

"What you need to explain," he said, stone-faced, "is how much you paid my wife to make her tell me how brilliant you were yesterday." With that, he broke into a grin. His huge, bellowing laugh followed. "You did a nice job, so I was told. Quick and painless. Thanks."

"You're welcome," I said, remembering to breathe again. I had nearly pissed in my pants. I reminded him that "We still have the DMV hearing to deal with, though."