Lassiter 07 - Flesh and Bones by Levine, Paul (best fiction books to read TXT) 📗

am not invited by Ivy League institutions to lecture on the rules of evidence or the fine art of oral advocacy. Downtown lawyers do not flock to the courthouse to see my closing arguments. I am apparently one of the few lawyers in the country not solicited by the television networks to comment on the O. J. Simpson case, even though I am probably the only one to have missed tackling him-resulting in a touchdown-on a snowy day in Buffalo about a million years ago. I don't know the secrets of winning cases, other than playing golf with the judges and contributing cash to their re-election campaigns. I don't know what goes through jurors' minds, even when I sidle up to their locked door and listen to the babble through the keyhole. In short, I am not the world's greatest trial lawyer. Or even the best in the high-rise office building that overlooks Biscayne Bay where I hang out my shingle, or would, if I knew what a shingle was. My night law school diploma is fastened by duct tape to the bathroom wall at home. It covers a crack in the plaster and forces me to contemplate the sorry state of the justice system a few times each day, more if I'm staring at the world through a haze induced by excessive consumption of malt and hops.

I am broad-shouldered, sandy-haired, and blue-eyed, and my neck is always threatening to pop the top button on my shirts. I look more like a longshoreman than a lawyer.

A dozen years ago, I scored straight C's in torts and contracts after an undistinguished career as a second-string linebacker earning slightly more than league minimum with the Miami Dolphins. In my first career, including my days as a semi-scholar-athlete in college, I had two knee operations, three shoulder separations, a broken nose, wrist, and ankle, and turftoe so bad my foot was the size and color of an eggplant.

In my second career, I've been ridiculed by deep-carpet, Armani-suited, Gucci-briefcased lawyers, jailed for contempt by ornery judges, and occasionally paid for services rendered.

I never intended to be a hero, and I succeeded.

On this humid June morning, I was slumped into the heavy oak chair at the defense table, gathering my thoughts, then disposing of most of them, while my client kept twisting around, whispering snippets of unsolicited and irrelevant advice. Each time, he leaned close enough to remind me of the black bean soup with onions he had slurped down at lunch. Nodding sagely, I silently thanked him for his assistance, all the time staring at the sign above the judge's bench: WE WHO LABOR HERE SEEK ONLY THE TRUTH.

Sure, sure, and the check's in the mail.

Philosophers and poets may be truth seekers. Lawyers only want to win. I have my own personal code, and you won't find it in any books. I won't lie to the judge, bribe a cop, or steal from a client. Other than that, it's pretty much anything goes. Still, I draw the line on whose colors I'll wear. I won't represent child molesters or drug dealers. Yeah, I know, everybody's entitled to a defense, and the lawyer isn't there to assert the client's innocence, just to force the state to meet its burden of proof. Cross-examine, put on your case, if you have any, and let the chips fall where they may.

Bull! When I defend someone, I walk in that person's moccasins, or tasseled loafers, as the case may be. I am not just a hired gun. I lose a piece of myself and take on a piece of the client. That doesn't mean I represent only innocent defendants. If I did, I would starve. My first job after law school was in the Public Defender's office, and my first customers, as I liked to call them, were the folks too poor to hire lawyers with a little gray in their hair. I quickly learned that my clients' poverty didn't make them noble, just mean. I also got an education from my repeat customers, most of whom knew more criminal law than I did. Nearly all were guilty of something, though the state couldn't necessarily prove it.

These days, I represent a higher grade of dirtbag. My clients are too smart to pistol-whip a liquor store clerk for a hundred bucks in the till. But they might sell paintings by a coked-out South Beach artist as undiscovered works by Salvador Dali, or ship vials of yogurt as prize bull semen, or hawk land on Machu Picchu as the treasure trove of the Incas. All of which Blinky Baroso did, at one time or another. Sometimes twice.

But back to ethics. I'm not interested in the rules made up by bar association bigwigs in three-piece suits who gather in ritzy hotels to celebrate their own self-importance. Their rules are intended to protect clients and industries with the most money. It's just like my old game, which they sissified to protect the lah-de-dah quarterbacks. To me, a late hit is just a reminder that football is a contact sport.

Anyway, as far as I could tell, no one in courtroom 4-2 of the Justice Building was zealously engaged in truth seeking at the moment. My client had a more elementary quest. Blinky Baroso merely sought a not-guilty verdict ("Gimme a big N.G., Jake") so he could resume his career of shams, swindles, and sleight-of-hand business deals.

Judge Herman Gold, peering at us over his rimless spectacles, just wanted a verdict-any verdict-in time to play a couple of quinielas at the jai alai fronton.

Chief Prosecutor Abe Socolow, looking appropriately funereal in his black suit, wanted another slam-dunk guilty verdict to add to his ninety-six percent conviction rate.

The jurors gave no indication of wanting anything at all, although number five, a female bus driver, looked like she had to pee. It was a fairly typical jury by Miami standards. Besides the bus driver, we had a body piercer (noses, nipples, and ears), a shark hunter, a lobster