Lassiter jl-8 Page 5

  Yeah, I know I said I didn’t care. But now, with seconds to go, I was the guy on trial. The jury was about to rule on me.

  It’s always like this. I want to win.

  And fast. Amy was waiting for me upstairs in the lobby of the State Attorney’s Office.

  The gallery was empty, except for a couple of seniors who came in for the air-conditioning, and dozed off in the back row. CNN had chosen not to cover the trial, and legal scholars somehow never showed up.

  Judge Philbrick asked the magic question: “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

  The jury foreman gave the right answer: “We have, Your Honor.”

  The foreman handed a slip of paper to the bailiff, who carried it to the judge, who glanced at it and passed it on to the female clerk, sitting directly in front of the bench.

  “The clerk shall publish the verdict,” the judge said, in stentorian tones.

  The clerk, a fifty-ish woman with eyeglasses slung around her neck on a chain of imitation pearls, squinted at the page, then read aloud: “We, the jury, find the defendant not guilty.”

  She notched an eyebrow on the word “not.”

  The judge nodded, the prosecutor scowled, and the jurors started gathering their things. Pepito Dominguez threw his arms around me. “Papa said you were the best! And you are. Thanks, man!”

  I peeled Pepito’s hands off my shoulders. “You’re welcome. Tell your old man the bill is in the mail.”

  “How ’bout I buy you a drink?”

  “You shitting me?”

  “Let’s hit Lario’s. Couple pitchers of margaritas. Place is full of models.”

  I wanted to bitch-slap the kid. I also wanted to keep my Bar ticket, and the folks in Tallahassee have warned me, scolded me, and placed me on double-secret probation several times. “Didn’t you just get out of New Horizons?”

  “My old man put me in, but I didn’t need no rehab.”

  Maybe I shouldn’t have been upset. The little prick was grateful, and so many clients aren’t. If you win, they think, Hey, I’m innocent, why’d I need you? If you lose, they blame you.

  I jabbed a finger into the kid’s bony chest. “I’m gonna be watching you. And if I see you within fifty yards of a bottle, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

  Looking confused, Pepito tried to work up a cool retort, but his brain cells wouldn’t cooperate. Finally, he said, “I thought we could hang together, even though you’re, like, an old dude.”

  “Did you hear me? I represented you because I like your father. But I don’t like you. Why don’t you get a job and stop sponging off your parents?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about that, too.”

  “What?”

  “Dad said maybe you could hire me.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I’ve always thought it’d be cool to be a P.I.”

  “Forget it. Tell your dad nothing doing.”

  The kid’s old man, Pepe Dominguez, owned Blue Sky Bail Bonds. Pepe sent me clients, and unlike most bail bondsmen, never demanded kickbacks.

  Now I turned to his punk-ass son. “You want to be a P.I. So you figure someone will just hand it to you? Ever think there might be some training involved? Some schooling? Some work? Your problem is, you have a great father but you’re a rotten kid.”

  “I’m gonna tell Dad you dissed me.” A sissy little whine.

  “Tell him there’s a limit to my friendship.”

  It was not the last lie I was to tell that day.

  11 Digging Up Buried Bones

  State Attorney Alejandro Castiel was waiting in his office atop the Justice Building. Amy had dressed for the occasion, a white silk blouse with girly ruffles down the front and a form-fitting navy skirt that ended just above a pair of lovely knees. She looked both professional and demure.

  I introduced her to Castiel, who flashed his politician’s smile as he steered us to comfy chairs, then leaned against the edge of his desk like a helpful doctor in a TV commercial.

  He wore a dark Italian suit and was so deeply tanned he wouldn’t need makeup if Channel 4 wanted a quick quote on the latest battle for justice. His hair-flecks of gray at the temples-was swept straight back like a young Pat Riley of Miami Heat fame.

  My goal was straightforward enough. Convince Castiel to open an investigation into the disappearance of Krista Larkin eighteen years ago. He could start by questioning Charles Ziegler, his party guests, and a biker named Snake if he could be found.

  “You putting on weight, Jake?” It was Alex’s shoulder punch, a guy’s greeting.

  “Don’t start,” I said.

  “I’m gonna hang 30 on you this week.”

  I sucked in my gut and said, “I still own you in the paint.”

  He laughed and explained to Amy that we played against each other in Lawyers’ League basketball. She replied that I’d already told her, and isn’t it nice that boys can still be boys as they crept toward middle age?

  Alex Castiel-“Alejandro” too long for a campaign poster-was a born politician. Miami knew his story well. The Castiels were Sephardic Jews who had emigrated from Spain to Cuba two centuries before Fidel Castro was born. So, Alejandro was a Jewbano. A crossover candidate, he spoke Spanish fluently and knew enough Yiddish jokes to make the yentas laugh. He won the election in a landslide of pastelitos and matzoh balls. Some people mentioned Castiel as a possible candidate for governor. I thought the guy could go even higher.

  I liked him. Sounds strange, I know, coming from a defense lawyer who’s chop-blocked a few prosecutors and been sucker-punched by many others. But most are hardworking and underpaid and believe in what they’re doing. Alex was one of them.

  “Ms. Larkin, Jake called me this morning,” Castiel said, “so I had the police report pulled out of storage and messengered over.” He opened a folder and grabbed a skinny document. “Let’s start with the witness who said Amy was headed to Charlie Ziegler’s house the night she went missing.”

  Charlie. The use of the diminutive did not escape me.

  “Sonia Majeski,” I said.

  “What’s her credibility?”

  “I believe her. Isn’t that good enough?”

  He riffled through the report. “Exotic dancer. Arrested a couple times doing rub-and-tugs in a massage parlor.”

  “What’s the relevance of that?” I asked.

  He put down the file. “Ziegler told the cops Krista Larkin never showed up that night.”

  “What about the other guests? How many people did the cops talk to?”

  “Apparently, no one else.”

  “Let me guess why. The party animals were prominent around town. Bankers, lawyers, power brokers. Maybe a police captain or two.”

  “No way to tell from the report, but it’s a good guess.”

  “So Ziegler offers a drink to a rookie cop, gives him a box of porn videos for the station, and the investigation is closed.”

  Castiel ignored my shot at Miami’s semi-finest and turned to Amy. “I have to ask you some difficult questions, Ms. Larkin.”

  “I’m a big girl,” she fired back.

  “Your sister ran away from home several months earlier.”

  “Yes.”

  “What makes you so sure she didn’t run away again?”

  “All her belongings were still in her apartment. Isn’t that evidence that something happened to her?”

  “Not necessarily.” He looked back at the report. “Her car wasn’t at the apartment. Maybe she left town in a hurry. Your sister was living dangerously. Drugs. Porn. She could have ripped off a dealer. Or just decided to try another city and start all over.”

  “At some point, Krista would have called me.”

  “Maybe once she began a new life, she decided to put everything behind her.”

  “She wouldn’t have let all these years go by.” Amy’s lower lip trembled. Maybe she wasn’t made of marble after all. “We loved each other.”

  Castiel moved away from his desk and put a hand on
her shoulder. “I understand your grief. But there’s no proof your sister is dead, much less that someone killed her.”

  “I don’t want your sympathy, Mr. Castiel.” She shook his hand away. “Dammit, I want you to do something.”

  Castiel recoiled as if slapped. I’d failed to warn him that Amy wasn’t the touchy-feely type. He turned to me. “Jake, you see the situation here. Just what would you have me do?”

  “Ask Ziegler to give a voluntary statement under oath. No subpoena and he waives immunity.”

  “Did you actually pass the Bar exam?”

  “Fourth try.”

  “Why would Ziegler ever do that?”

  “If he’s a solid citizen with nothing to hide, why not?”

  “Testify about a missing underage girl and remind people of his past. Why would he want to dig up all those buried bones?”

  “Interesting choice of words.”

  He gave me that straight-on, challenging look. I’d seen it when he had the ball at the top of the key. Was he going to shoot the step-back jumper or drive to the hoop? Instead of waiting to find out, I decided to swat the ball away.

  “What if I told you that another woman last seen in Ziegler’s company disappeared and was never seen again?” I said.

  Liar, liar. Briefs on fire.

  “What woman? When?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.” Like a gorilla shaking a tree, I was curious what might fall from the branches.

  “You can’t leave that hanging, Jake. Do you have evidence that Charlie Ziegler committed a crime?”

  “Let me put it this way. I have a confidential source who says Ziegler was making snuff films.”

  Amy stiffened in her chair. “Jake, is that true?”

  I hadn’t told her what Sonia had said. Maybe it was cruel to spring it on her, but I wanted tension in the room, and I got it. I’d combined my total lie about a second missing woman with the dubious hearsay about snuff films. Of such whispers are wicked rumors born. And maybe a state investigation.

  “Ms. Larkin, I wonder if you’d like a cup of coffee in our break room,” Castiel said. He was speaking to my client but was looking at me through narrowed eyes. “I need to have a few words with your lawyer.”

  Watching Castiel glare at me, I had a pretty good idea what some of those words would be.

  12 The Solid Gold Lighter

  “Snuff films are a myth,” Castiel said. “Who fed you this line of crap, anyway?”

  “I told you, Alex. My informant is confidential.”

  “For a lawyer, you’re a lousy liar.”

  “Don’t let that get out, or I’ll lose all my clients.”

  Castiel returned to his desk, the power position. I sat humbly in the visitor’s chair, admiring the paneled walls. Castiel didn’t plaster his office with photos of himself shaking hands with every cheap politico in town. No ribbon cuttings. No plaques from the Kiwanis or bouquets from the PTA. For a politician, he was almost a regular guy.

  “Face it,” Castiel said. “All you have is suspicion with nothing to back it up.”

  “The sleazebag was passing the girl around to his friends and making her do porn. She disappears. I’m suspicious, yeah.”

  “Sleazebag? You put labels on people, Jake. You see things in black and white, good and evil.”

  “You’re right. I see rapists as evil. I don’t care that Polanski made good movies or that Ziegler made bad ones. I just get pissed when the strong abuse the weak.”

  “A word of advice, Jake. Don’t go around town talking trash about Charlie Ziegler. The guy’s got connections.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He could cut off your court appointments with one phone call, and there’s nothing I could do to help you.”

  I had one more card to play, the one I’d carried in my vest for years. “If not for me, Alex, you wouldn’t even be sitting in that fancy chair.”

  That seemed to take him aback. “You saying I owe you because you once did a public service?”

  “I wore a wire for you because I thought it was the right thing to do. You got elected State Attorney, and I got treated like a leper.”

  To this day, I didn’t know if I regretted my actions. I was a newly minted lawyer, learning the ropes in the Public Defender’s Office. One of my first clients had discovered the identity of the confidential informant who had fingered him for robbery and extortion. My guy thought I’d make a good bag man to deliver money to a gangbanger who would kill the informant and the prosecutor, a newbie named Alejandro Castiel.

  I had a choice. I could withdraw from the case, but I figured my client would just find somebody else to set up the hit. So I wore a wire and arranged to meet the gangbanger in a Hialeah warehouse.

  “Why you asking all these questions?” the guy demanded.

  “To make sure we’re on the same page.”

  “Just give me the money and get the fuck out.”

  “Not a problem.” I handed over a gym bag stuffed with cash. Maybe I was sweating or maybe something in my eyes gave it away.

  “You wearing a wire?” the guy said.

  “Fuck no.”

  “Prove it.” He pulled a 9mm from his waistband.

  He was half a foot shorter than me, and standing so close, I could feel his breath. I head-butted him, a quick, vicious shot that broke his nose and spurted blood over me. I stomped on his instep, and he dropped the gun.

  A second later, the door burst open. Half a dozen cops flew into the room, followed by Castiel.

  Starting with the press conference, Castiel became the hero of the story. I turned out to be the subject of some suspicion. Why, a newspaper reporter wondered, would a career criminal solicit me for a murder scheme, unless I was dirty? I didn’t get the key to the city or even a thank you. Defense lawyers treated me like a pariah, and even penniless jailbirds wouldn’t hire me.

  Now Castiel looked troubled. No one ever wants to be reminded of an unpaid debt. “How much is Amy Larkin paying you, Jake?”

  “In round numbers, zero.”

  “Are you nailing her?”

  “Does she look nailable? When you put your hand on her shoulder, I thought she was gonna bite it off.”

  “Your stake in this case is bupkis. So why now?”

  “Why now, what?”

  “All these years, you never mentioned wearing the wire for me. Why you calling in that chit now? What’s so special about this case?”

  I’m not one of those sinners who finds relief in confession, so I didn’t go anywhere near the story of my one-night stand with Krista. “If I don’t help Amy Larkin, who will?”

  “Not buying it, Jake. You don’t give a hoot about your clients.”

  “Bullshit! I sweat blood for every one.”

  “You sweat blood to win. It’s about you, pal. Not them.”

  That stopped me. After a moment, I said, “Never too late to change.”

  “Save it for your next client, because you can’t help Amy Larkin. You can only hurt yourself.”

  When people tell me I can’t do something, I generally work harder to prove I can. Everyone told me I couldn’t make the Dolphins as a free agent. But I did, even if I sat so far down Shula’s bench, my ass was in Ocala.

  Castiel opened a fancy humidor made of polished cherrywood and pulled out a long, tapered cigar. Then he grabbed a guillotine clipper from his pocket and snipped off the end. We were in a nonsmoking building and the cigar was a Cuban Torpedo, but I decided against making a citizen’s arrest.

  He leaned against the credenza and waved the unlit cigar at me. “I’ve known Charlie a long time, and he’s no killer. Trust me on this one, Jake.”

  “Great. He can call you as a character witness.”

  “Years ago, Charlie dealt in sleaze. But he’s a changed man. You, of all people, should respect that.”

  “Me?”

  “You were a hell-raiser, and now you’re a defense lawyer, which means you believe in redemption. You’re the guys
always begging for second chances.”

  Castiel pulled a cigarette lighter out of his pocket and flipped it open. It was gold in color and looked expensive. He lit the long, illegal cigar, sucked on it, and exhaled a fine cloud of tangy smoke.

  “Life is not always black and white, Jake. Mostly, it’s colored in shades of gray.”

  “That’s deep, Alex.”

  “The duality of man. There’s good and evil in all of us.”

  “Very deep, indeed.” What is it about men and cigars? A guy lights up and starts spouting two-bit philosophy.

  Castiel grabbed a weathered black-and-white photo in a gilt frame from his credenza. A faded, vintage look. Two men standing in front of a roulette wheel, lots of classy folk dressed to the nines, as they would have said back then. A beautiful red-haired woman stood between the men. She wore a slinky cocktail dress with a flower pinned behind one ear. “That’s my father on the left and my mother in the middle.”

  “And Meyer Lansky on the right,” I tossed in. “The Riviera Hotel in Havana in the fifties. I remember your stories, Alex.”

  Bernard Castiel, Alex’s father, was a handsome man in an old-fashioned way. Thick through the chest in his double-breasted suit, dark hair brilliantined straight back. Rosa Castiel had wild, flashing eyes and looked ready to mambo. She was taller than the man on her left, Meyer Lansky, the mobster. Finely tailored gray suit, thin face, wary eyes.

  For as long as I’ve known him, Castiel has had a curious level of pride about his family’s less-than-savory past.

  “Can you imagine those times, Jake?” Castiel once told me. “Meyer Lansky, Lucky Luciano, and Bugsy Siegel all in Cuba at the same time, three guys who grew up together on the Lower East Side. It’d be like Mays, Mantle, and Aaron all playing on the same team.”

  There was always a lilt of excitement in Castiel’s voice talking about those days. Tales of high-stakes gambling, dangerous men, and exotic women. In the late 1950s, Bernard Castiel was security chief at Lansky’s Riviera casino. His most important task was delivering bundles of cash to President Fulgencio Batista. More mundane chores involved chopping off the hands of casino employees caught skimming. Or so Alex once told me with notes of contentment.