17
‘‘I’M HERE FOR a consultation,’’ Nina told the spectacles at the desk. It was late, past six o’clock. She had already called Bob to remind him to work on his homework and to put frozen fish sticks into the oven.
‘‘I’d like to help you, but he’s about to go home. We could get you in tomorrow morning.’’
‘‘I’m tied up tomorrow. Have to see him now.’’
‘‘Nina?’’ The white-haired man had been walking past her, toward the exit, carrying the usual heavy case.
‘‘Artie, have you got just a minute?’’ Nina said. She must have looked really needy at that moment, because Artie Wilson didn’t even stop walking, he just swiveled and reversed his direction, saying over his shoulder, ‘‘Follow me.’’
In the shuttered conference room of Artie’s law office, surrounded by the familiar law books and his comforting presence pulling out a chair for her and bringing her a cup of water, she realized just how bad she felt.
‘‘How can I help you?’’ he said, as he must say to the criminal clients he represented.
Artie, a criminal defense attorney with forty years of experience, had just retired to Tahoe from San Francisco a few months before. At least, he had expected to retire, but he quickly wearied of playing golf and drinking with his fellow retirees at the Chart House, so he had opened up an office in the Starlake Building just above Nina’s on the second floor. He loved Mexican food and talking law, and they had fallen into the habit of eating lunch together several times a week.
‘‘It’s a case I have. I need to consult you,’’ she said.
‘‘Sure.’’
‘‘I’ll pay you.’’
‘‘No need.’’
‘‘So there won’t be any confidentiality problem down the road. You know.’’
‘‘Okay. Pay me. I’m listening.’’
‘‘Well, I just got all the charges against Jim Strong dismissed today.’’
‘‘Nice work!’’
‘‘Thanks, but I have to tell you, I’m very unsure about this case. For one thing, I’m sure the prosecutor will refile.’’
Artie liked to skip the anesthetic preludes and go directly for the root, however painful the operation. ‘‘You think he killed his brother.’’
‘‘I don’t know. That’s what’s bothering me. If I thought he was innocent, I could defend him wholeheartedly. If I thought he was guilty, I’d do the same, to make sure he got a fair trial. But I want to know which it is. I can’t figure it out. It could have been an accident. If it was a murder, someone else could have done it. It’s all tangled up. I have to know if he’s lying.’’
Artie pondered this. ‘‘Are you ever going to have a clear answer to that question?’’
‘‘I don’t see how. He’s not going to change his story, if he’s lying.’’
‘‘Why won’t you defend a lying killer? You’ll defend a killer, you just said so.’’
‘‘Because—because you see, we’re a team. He turns me into a liar if he’s a liar. The whole thing turns false, into a charade of justice. I look for exculpatory evidence that doesn’t exist, and I assert theories that are hooey—I construct this whole edifice of lies without even knowing it. I—’’
‘‘He uses you to defeat justice.’’
‘‘Yes, that’s it. I use all my skills, my smarts, everything, in the service of a lie.’’
‘‘But that’s our job sometimes, isn’t it?’’ Artie went to the credenza and withdrew an untouched bottle of liquor and two very small silver-rimmed glasses. ‘‘What difference does it make, except that maybe you do a little better job if you think he’s innocent?’’
She took the glass. ‘‘Bottoms up,’’ he said, and they both tossed theirs down.
‘‘Uh . . . uh . . .’’ Nina’s esophagus was afire and her eyes were bulging out of her head. A wildfire swept through her body. ‘‘What is that stuff?’’ she sputtered.
‘‘Mezcal. Premium Oaxacan. Made from the agave plant. No worms in the expensive mezcal, don’t worry.’’
She set the glass down carefully. Slowly, her insides began the first phase of repairs, damping down into a contained burn.
‘‘So what do you care if he fools you?’’ Artie said.
‘‘Artie, this is a first for me,’’ Nina said. ‘‘With my guilty clients, the evidence against them is usually overwhelming. They don’t have to lie to me or make excuses. It’s easier. I explain that even if they have done what they are accused of doing, I can help with the process, make sure every mitigating factor is considered.’’
‘‘You’ve never gone to trial with a client you knew was guilty?’’
‘‘Not knowingly,’’ Nina said. ‘‘I’ve handled quite a few appeals where I thought the client was guilty, but the client was sitting in prison in San Quentin or Soledad or someplace and it was all intellectual arguments and filing papers. I did my best, but I always felt confident that the system would work at that level—the attorney general’s office would put up a fight and the court would make a reasoned decision. There had already been a trial. I didn’t have to make up facts—’’
‘‘You just had to massage them within an inch of their lives,’’ Artie said. ‘‘Are you making up facts in this case? Is that what you think you’re doing?’’
‘‘No! I don’t mean to say that. I’m . . .’’ She thought about it. ‘‘Making up explanations for facts. And the prosecution isn’t fighting back like it should.’’ She explained about the time squeeze she had put on Collier, the late revision to the autopsy report, Doc Clauson’s sudden illness, and Heidi’s disappearance.
‘‘It’s like you put the hex on them,’’ Artie said. ‘‘I see your problem. The balance of power isn’t working.’’
‘‘Yes, that’s it.’’
‘‘You feel uncomfortable and want your fetters. You don’t want to be allowed to run amok.’’
‘‘Correct.’’
‘‘Have another tot. Bottoms up.’’ They drank. The liquor stoked the fire. A shudder ran through Nina’s body. Artie coughed a couple of times. ‘‘Good stuff,’’ he said, wiping his eyes.
‘‘Y’know, Nina,’’ he went on thoughtfully, ‘‘we lawyers tend to get too self-important sometimes. We’re very good at taking on responsibilities, and sometimes we imagine that we have a whole lot more responsibility than we actually have. Take your situation. You’re worrying about all sorts of things that aren’t in your bailiwick. You’re just a lowly defense attorney, and your duty is to defend. That’s all. It’s very simple. You’re an advocate, and not for justice, but for your client. If you start taking on other roles like judge and jury you’re not doing your job. Quit worrying. Quit trying to see all sides. Defend your client.’’
‘‘I know that’s my duty. I am loyal to the client. I believe in what I do. I like my place in the system. But if other parts of the system are breaking down all around, I have too much power,’’ Nina said. ‘‘I’m just a cog in the machine, but if the machine is shaky, and I just keep blindly doing my cog thing, I could corrupt it.’’
‘‘What is a cog, anyway?’’
‘‘No idea.’’
‘‘So you’re scared, eh?’’
‘‘No, I never said that.’’
‘‘Then you’re nuts. I’ve been afraid for forty years. After all, we’re closer than mothers to some people whose lot in life is to lay waste to other people.’’
‘‘That’s something else. I don’t want to think about that part of the job right now.’’
‘‘Listen. Don’t worry. The system has its ways, and some of them aren’t quite straightforward. If Strong did it, he’ll be caught one way or the other no matter how brilliant the defense.’’
‘‘I hope you’re right. But—what if he’s guilty? And I get him off?’’
Artie shrugged. ‘‘Then one guy out of a thousand slipped by,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s the conflict at the heart of our work. Now and then he’s guilty but you can’t get a deal and you have to go to trial, and you find yourself saying things to the jury that are intended to mislead, and that’s the way it goes.’’
‘‘I just can’t accept that.’’
‘‘It’s not up to you to accept it or not accept it. It’s up to you to defend him like hell. And if he gets off, he gets off.’’
‘‘I won’t be used like that,’’ Nina said stubbornly. ‘‘Unwittingly.’’
‘‘Aha! It’s the unwitting part you object to. Look, if you can’t stand the ethical dilemma, unload him,’’ Artie said. ‘‘But I warn you, it’ll come up again and again. Most of your clients are gonna be guilty.’’
‘‘I know that! It’s this particular case, this situation—’’
‘‘So—unload him.’’
‘‘But—he depends on me. He thinks we have a great relationship. He’s got a lot of issues with abandonment. I think it would cause him harm, and that’s not ethical, either.’’
‘‘Is this some kind of male-female thing, Nina?’’ Artie said, his keen if somewhat bloodshot eyes boring into her. ‘‘Something between you two?’’
‘‘No. But he—he relies on me. He begs me not to desert him like his wife did, and his father.’’
‘‘Sounds like a master manipulator to me,’’ said Artie.
‘‘I don’t know if he is, or if he’s utterly sincere,’’ Nina said. ‘‘God, Artie, don’t give me any more. And put the bottle away, or we’ll both get pulled over on the way home.’’ While Artie was doing that, she watched his bowed back and the two tufts of white hair around his hard-headed skull, and she had an idea.
‘‘Artie?’’
‘‘Uh huh.’’
‘‘Would you work with me on the Strong case?’’ That made him turn around, hitch up his pants, and give her a good look. ‘‘You’ve been having a good time defending purse snatchers and drunk drivers and kleptomaniacs during the three months you’ve been here. I’ve watched you in court. You’re fiendish. You’re so good, you don’t even have to think.’’
‘‘I’m retired. I’m just fooling around, keeping my hand in. It’s my gambling money. Keeps my wife happy since I’m not home bothering her all day.’’
‘‘Bull. You’re as good as ever, and you must be bored.’’
Artie adjusted his glasses and said, ‘‘Boredom can be quite entertaining if it’s a new experience. I’ve been in the game a long time, Nina, and I’m happy to get out of the stormy sea and just dabble my fingers in it from the safety of my dock.’’
‘‘Are you going to tell me you can resist my offer? Think of it. Murder One, Artie. Prominent family. Lots of media exposure. That will bring in more clients, if you want them. And you know, he just may be innocent.’’
‘‘Too much work.’’
‘‘Please . . . I’d really appreciate it.’’
‘‘Stop batting your eyelashes at me, young lady. You’re too attractive for your own good.’’
‘‘Please?’’
‘‘You do all the paperwork,’’ Artie said. ‘‘I’ll only do court work.’’
‘‘Deal.’’
‘‘My knees are bad. I complain a lot, and take long lunches. I don’t hear out of my left ear. I’m sixty-four years old.’’
‘‘In your prime.’’
‘‘Apparently not too old to be twisted around your dainty finger.’’
‘‘Thank God.’’
They shook hands, and Nina went home to Bob.
Who had packed up his baseball cards. And a bunch of Chinese movies. And his precious stuffed animal, the purple dragon that still went with him everywhere. But no clothes yet, although he was leaving in two days.
And he hadn’t made a fire, but the heat blasting through the vents gave the cabin the fierce climate of midsummer Texas. ‘‘Did you put dinner in the oven?’’ she asked, throwing off her coat and leaping out of Hitchcock’s way. At least the dog was enthusiastic about her return, wagging his tail, his entire body wagging in fact.
Bob, on the other hand, sprawled insensate in his blue beanbag, eyes fused to the new laptop on which VCD star Chow Yun-Fat, God of Gamblers, was blowing away a few dozen Hong Kong triad members with an infinite-shot Magnum.
‘‘Are you a good boy? A fine fellow? Yes, you are,’’ she crooned, letting Hitchcock jump up and put his paws on her shoulders. The dog gave it up, tail, back, ears, furry chest, his jaws open in a toothy grimace, while Bob basked in his electronic ecstasy, impervious to ordinary human contact.
‘‘Bob! Well? Did you?’’
A stir at this disruption. One eye cocked her way, like the eye of the tyrannosaurus in
Jurassic Park.
‘‘Of course I did. You asked me to, didn’t you? You never remember the good stuff I do. Remember this video?’’
‘‘We watched it last night. How could I forget?’’
‘‘The good part’s next. Want to watch it with me?’’
‘‘No thanks. I’ll go check the oven.’’ The oily breaded fish sticks, slightly blackened, lay in perfect rows, an aesthetic universe apart from actual fresh fish, just the way Bob liked them. She pulled a prepackaged salad mix from the fridge and poured some nonfat dressing on it. Finding a slightly shriveling lemon in the refrigerator drawer, she cut it into wedges, placing it neatly on a plate in the middle of the table. ‘‘Bob, wash your hands,’’ she called, and dished everything up, the fish and the salad and some sliced apple. And all, as Sandy would say.
They ate at the dining room table. Nina felt that was important for family life. However, the laptop, unconcerned with family values, had also made its way to the table. Chow Yun-Fat seemed no longer to recognize his spunky sidekick. It was no wonder, since Chow had suffered brain damage in an accident and had capered through the entire movie with a mental age of about five and a half. The sidekick crept off, sad and unappreciated.
‘‘Eat some of that salad. Man does not live on grease alone. When you’re in Germany, I want you to eat a piece of fruit, a banana or something, every day. Now where’s the to-do list? Okay, tonight we do laundry and sew up your green sweatshirt.’’ Chow suddenly recovered his brains and remembered everything after all. He surprised his buddy and promoted him from sidekick to partner. The God of Gamblers was back! Chow and his happy posse headed out for another night of gunplay and mah-jongg.
The End.
‘‘Aw,’’ Nina said. ‘‘I liked him better when he was brain-damaged.’’
‘‘You don’t have to be sarcastic, Mom. You’re not in court anymore.’’
‘‘Now turn that thing off. Let’s get to work.’’
The moment came. Bob boarded an American Airlines flight at the airport in Reno at seven-thirty P.M. on Sunday night.
‘‘Call me as soon as you get in.’’
‘‘I know, I know.’’
‘‘Call me at the airport in Denver if you have any trouble at all.’’