Lassiter 03 - False Dawn (4 page)

“So you’ve testified. But the name ‘tender’ is just an abbreviation of tenderloin, the meat covering the chicken’s breastbone, correct?”

Christopher Middleton eyed me warily. His delay told the jury that he didn’t want to answer the question, that he knew the question would lead to another and another, and somewhere down that road was a patch of quicksand. He touched a finger to the fringes of his blow-dried hair. “The meat does come from the breastbone,” he answered, finally.

“And isn’t it commonly called the tenderloin?”

Another pause. “I’ve heard it mentioned.”

“I’m sure you have,” I said quietly, causing the judge to stir, but no objection rose from the plaintiff’s table. H. T. Patterson knew when not to call attention to his client’s squirming. “Now, my client’s frozen food product, Percy’s Perfect Chickee Tender, also uses chicken from the tenderloin, does it not?”

“If you say so.”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Middleton. You hired a testing lab at great expense to analyze my client’s product.”

“Objection!” Patterson was on his feet, realizing there’s also a time to protect your witness. A former preacher at the Liberty City Baptist Church, my learned opponent was resplendent in a white linen three-piece suit. He stood ramrod straight, which took him to five-feet-five on his tippy-toes. “Mr. Lassiter is baiting, bedeviling, and badgering my client,” Patterson railed in his seductive revival meeting singsong. “If counsel were a novice at the bar, we could forgive his transgressions, but given his experience, his erudition, his perspicacity, yea, his very wisdom, acumen, and sagacity, we must consider these malefactions to be intentional violations of the rules of evidence and trial procedure.”

Was he talking about me, a guy who got straight C’s in law school because they didn’t offer phys ed?

“Sustained,” intoned Judge Harold Bricklin, a man of imposing girth and sour demeanor. “Ask questions, Mr. Lassiter, and refrain from comments on the testimony.” That was a mild rebuke from someone whose idea of judicial restraint is not plugging obstreperous lawyers with the seven-shot 380 Walther PPK he carried under his flowing black robes.

“
Did
you hire a testing lab—”

“Yes, yes. Your client uses the same meat.” Middleton was growing edgy.

“So you don’t contend Percy’s Perfect Chickee Tender is misrepresenting its product?”

I knew the answer, of course. One of the trial lawyer’s oldest tricks is to exclude allegations against his client that have never been made.

“No.”

“And you don’t claim trademark infringement?”

“No.”

“And you can’t possibly contend that consumers are confused, since my client’s products are sold only in supermarkets while yours are sold only in your own fast-food convenience stores.”

I tried to make “fast-food” sound like toxic scum.

“Well, maybe not,” he allowed, “but Percy’s trading off our name. We created consumer name identification with our advertising, and they’re—”

“Thank you, Mr. Middleton. Nothing further.”

I left him stammering while H. T. Patterson rose, bowed to the jury, buttoned his suit coat, and stroked the pink carnation in his lapel. Patterson knew he could still rehabilitate his client on re-direct.

Percy Tucker looked fat and happy as I sat down next to him. They always do when someone else is skewered on the witness stand. His turn would come.

“Now, Mr. Middleton,” Patterson began in a tone of affection and deep respect, “how much money did your company expend on market research, consumer testing, and the like?”

I didn’t hear the answer because Percy was whispering suggestions in my ear. Clients always second-guess their lawyers—and often sue them—so it’s good to listen, or at least pretend. I doodled on a yellow pad so the jury thought I was taking notes. Percy was saying the jurors should taste both companies’ products. I wasn’t sure. The opposition’s chicken was soaked in a slimy grease, while Percy’s was dry, stringy, and coated with salt. I didn’t want to make the jurors sick and risk a mistrial. Trying this case once was enough.

At the end of the day, Marvin the Maven stopped me in the corridor. “Even though you didn’t ask, Jake, I think you’re
meshuga
, leaving on that woman, number four.”

Mrs. Kvajic. Late forties, a handsome woman with a big smile. “Dr. Weiner liked her earrings,” I said. “Large hoops, a little flamboyant. Figured she’d go for the chicken farmer over the big company.”

Marvin screwed his face into a septuagenarian’s pout. “Earrings, schmearrings. Did you look at her shoes, boychik? Charles Jourdan, three hundred bucks at Mayfair. She’s establishment all the way.”

Then Marvin walked away muttering to himself, not telling me how much I needed him.

T
he waiter served hors d’oeuvres on a silver tray.

I turned down the phyllo triangles stuffed with curried chicken and headed for the table stocked with iced-down stone crabs. On a small stage, a woman plucked at the strings of a harp, lending a formal air to the festivities. I gathered my beer and a plate of crabs and parked myself in front of an ice sculpture that towered over a bowl of shrimp. At parties, you can always find me within a fourth-and-one of the food.

I heard his voice before I saw him.

“There are four manners of death—accident, suicide, natural, and homicide—and the coroner’s first job is to ascertain one from the other.”

Doc Charlie Riggs was surrounded by a gaggle of young women. Most were taller than the bandy-legged and bearded wizard. The women wore cocktail dresses and jewelry that sparkled in the flickering reflection of the patio torches. We were on the broad expanse of red Spanish tile behind a Mediterranean mansion on Palm Island, one of the luxury landfills between Miami and Miami Beach. Years ago, Al Capone was an island resident. The current neighbors—lawyers, investment bankers, bond traders—aren’t as law-abiding.

“Right before I retired,” Doc Riggs was saying, “we had a hanging death that baffled the detectives. They couldn’t determine if it was suicide or homicide. A thirty-year-old married man was found in a hotel room. Bound, gagged, and dead. He was wearing a black brassiere and matching panties. His ankles were bound with a clothesline fastened to a dog collar around his neck. The body was positioned so that the man could see himself in the mirror, at least while he was alive. The panties were stained with seminal fluid.”

“A ritualistic torture murder?” one of the women guessed. She was a platinum blonde who squirmed with delight inside a skintight red leather mini.

“Colombian cowboys?” another offered, licking her glossy lips. “A revenge killing in a drug war. Or maybe a Santeria ritual?”

“A transvestite’s suicide?” said a third, a willowy model in a bare-shouldered silk dress patterned with cheetahs.

While the women were cooing and fluttering, Doc Riggs scratched his bushy beard. He pulled off his old eyeglasses, still mended with a fishhook where they had tossed a screw. “No, no, no, just like the police, you’ve come to a
consensus audacium
, a rash agreement. You’ve all
assumed
it was a homicide or a suicide.”

“But what else could it be?” asked the one in red leather, somewhat petulantly.

“
Non semper ea sunt quae videntur
. Things are not always what they appear to be. Or as Gilbert and Sullivan put it in song—”

“‘Things are seldom what they seem,’” I chimed in. “‘Skim milk masquerades as cream.’”

Charlie whirled toward me. “Eureka! Jacob Lassiter, my favorite downtown mouthpiece. Jake, do you know these young ladies?” Charlie gestured toward his admirers with his drink and wrinkled his forehead. “Gracious, I do believe I have forgotten your names, but they all end in v’s, i’s, and double e’s. Candy, Bambi, Sandee, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, say hello to Jake Lassiter, shyster to the stars. So, Jake, what was the cause of death?”

“Got me, Charlie. And not for the first time.”

“Accident!” Charlie thundered. “Sexual asphyxia. A botched attempt at a rather elaborate masturbation. The deceased intended to heighten sexual pleasure by increasing pressure on his neck. You probably know that Eskimos often choke each other during sex.”

“Didn’t know,” I said. “My bedmates usually wait till afterwards.”

“This poor soul got carried away, used too much pressure with his legs, and strangled himself. Just an accident, that’s all.”

While I was trying to figure the moral of the story, the young women started drifting away. I wondered if it was my body language again, but then I noticed that the music had stopped and so had most of the talking. Our host, Matsuo Yagamata, had taken the stage. He was short and stocky and wore his custom-made English suit a tad on the tight side. His eyes were dark and bright, and he had the air of unquestioned authority that successful men acquire if they are not born with it.

W
hen I had arrived at the party earlier in the evening, Yagamata smiled pleasantly and shook my hand with a grip that could crack walnuts. “Still in shape, number fifty-eight?” he asked, flattering me with the recognition and drawing attention to himself with the show of strength. “And how are my legal eagles at Harman and Fox?”

“Fine and dandy, as long as Yagamata Imports has us on retainer,” I replied.

He let my hand go and smiled. “Did you solve that duties problem on the European art, or do I have to bribe a customs inspector?”

You can never tell when some people are joking. “Better to pay your lawyers and let them sweet-talk the customs people,” I responded.

“Right. Bribes aren’t deductible.”

Okay, so he wasn’t joking. There had been a scandal in Japan, some government ministers on a secret payroll of his electronics exporting firm. With the investigation pending, Yagamata moved to Miami, a more forgiving place in both the private and public sectors. Businessmen here don’t earn their bones until they’ve been subpoenaed by a grand jury. Local politicians courting publicity gain greater name recognition once they’ve beaten an indictment for bribery or tax evasion. County commissioners once named a street after a major campaign contributor who also happened to be one of the largest drug dealers in town. With his lobbyists and legislator pals, Yagamata could have a whole subdivision christened in his honor.

“And what of our hotheaded Latino friend?” he asked. “Will it cost me a fortune to tidy up that little mess?”

That little mess
. The rich have quaint ways of dealing with other people’s tragedies.

“I’m not doing Crespo much good right now,” I told him. “He’s covering for someone, and he’s going to get hit with major league time unless he opens up.”

Yagamata stared at me with those dark, impenetrable eyes. “He told you this?”

A grand jury couldn’t get that information out of me with a crowbar. But I was hesitant to brush off the guy paying Crespo’s bills with a speech about the sanctity of the attorney-client privilege. On the other hand, Crespo had told me to keep his boss informed.
Señor Yagamata es mi amigo
. I felt Yagamata’s eyes probing me. “I can tell he’s holding back,” I said, finally. “I’ve known Francisco Crespo a long time.”

“So I am told. It is fortuitous, is it not?”

For whom, I wondered. Maybe for Yagamata. Get one of his expensive lawyers to clean up
that little mess
, some nasty blood on the floor of his warehouse. “I’m not sure,” I said. “It makes it tougher for me. His mother is a saintly woman who’s anguished by what’s become of him.”

“Ah, now I see. You are a sentimentalist.”

“I just like to help out people who’ve helped me.”

“An excellent quality. So what is stopping you?”

“Crespo told me a cock-and-bull story about how he killed the Russian all by his lonesome. It didn’t hold up.”

Yagamata shifted his weight ever so slightly. A look of discomfort crossed his face before he chased it away. “The authorities, they also will not believe it.”

It was more of a question, and something struck me about it, but I couldn’t pin it down. A faint tone of disappointment maybe. Around us, bartenders poured Cristal champagne into fresh-squeezed orange juice, and a line ocean breeze stirred the palms.

Pleasant party noises were growing, the tinkling of glasses, animated chatter, and an occasional laugh. People just delighted with their own socially prominent selves.

“No, the prosecution will be so happy to close the case, Crespo will take the fall by himself. Keeping files open doesn’t help the state attorney’s statistics when it’s appropriations time.”

Yagamata smiled and let some light into his eyes. The foibles of government seemed to be something he understood. “Fine. If Mr. Crespo says he killed the man, who are we to say he did not?”

I’m not one of those self-righteous lawyers given to glorifying the lonely warriors of the courtroom, righting wrongs wherever we find them, blah, blah, blah. I’m just a lead-footed ex-linebacker trying to wade through the muck of the so-called justice system. I don’t even mind getting dirty so long as the stains come out. But I’ve also got a big mouth, and sometimes a guy who sits on my shoulder puts words into it.

“My job is to do my best for Crespo whether he wants it or not.” I sounded tight-assed, even to myself.

Yagamata’s smile disappeared. He appraised me, probably wondering if I was a fool. That made two of us. I had never worked directly for him before, but the corporate and international lawyers in the firm had been glomming six-figure fees from Yagamata’s business interests for several years. I was meandering on the fringes of an ethical thicket. No lawyer can serve masters with conflicting interests.

“I’m sure you will do your job splendidly, Mr. Lassiter,” Yagamata said. “But perhaps you read too much into the situation. If Mr. Crespo is shielding someone else, it could be from a sense of honor, a commitment he has made. In my country, that would be praiseworthy.”

“But it warps the system,” I said. Jeez, where was I getting this apple-pie and flag-waving stuff?