Lassiter 07 - Flesh and Bones (39 page)

The rest took just a few seconds.

Guy Bernhardt steadied the shotgun with both hands.

I watched as his finger tightened on the trigger.

I took two steps and dived for him. Startled, he swung the gun in my direction.

The first explosion was soft, a car backfiring behind me.

The second explosion was a mountaintop exploding with volcanic force.

I ended up on the floor, the discharged shotgun in my hands, a hole the size of a cantaloupe in the knotty pine ceiling, I looked up at Guy. His eyes were open. Dead between them was a dime-sized black hole. Behind us, Chrissy was saying something, but my ears were ringing. I turned in time to see her eyes roll back and her knees buckle. I caught her just before she hit the floor.

You can't be her lawyer!" Charlie Riggs thundered. "You're a witness."

"Socolow said he wouldn't object to my representing her in front of the grand jury," I said.

He harrumphed and packed his pipe with cherry tobacco. He was pacing on my back porch. "If I were you, I wouldn't take that as a compliment."

"Haven't we had this conversation before?"

"Lord yes, and I thought you'd have learned your lesson."

"Abe's gonna let me testify in front of the grand jury and represent Chrissy, too. I'll tell my story, she'll tell hers, and we'll try to head off an indictment. If they indict her, I'll get Ed Shohat to handle the trial."

Charlie aimed some smoke in my direction. "Let's take inventory," he said as usual. "She went to the house with a loaded gun, intending to kill her half brother, correct?"

"Yep."

"Guy armed himself with a weapon of his own?"

"Yep again."

"Which he had every right to do, correct?"

"Under the doctrine of self-defense, sure," I said.

"She stated she would kill him, didn't she?"

"Sure did," I admitted, "but he threatened her, too. And he tried to provoke her."

"Oral provocations are no defense to murder."

"That's true, Charlie."

"Two shots were fired, one by each of them, right?"

"Right again."

"Then it seems to me," Charlie said, "that your client is innocent only if she didn't fire first."

"Go on, Charlie."

"Well, if she had backed down from her threats and Guy became the aggressor, she would be justified in using deadly force to defend herself. But if she fired first, well, she just assassinated him, and it would be first-degree murder."

"You may be right," I said.

"So which way was it?" Charlie demanded.

I didn't answer.

"Jake! The grand jury's going to ask you, so you might as well tell me. And don't forget you'll be under oath. I always taught you to be committed to the truth."

"You also taught me to do what I believed was right."

"That advice was not contradictory," he said.

"Charlie, I've always sought the truth. I've never lied to the court."

"And never will?"

It took me a moment to answer. "Charlie, have you ever had a situation where the truth and justice don't coincide, where the truth will do more harm than good?"

He pointed his pipe at me. "That's not for us to judge. We speak the truth and let the system handle it."

"The system doesn't work, Charlie."

"Balderdash! It just worked. You walked your client out of a murder charge when it seemed you had no chance."

"You think I can do it twice?"

"That's not my concern. The truth is the ideal we strive for. The truth is all that matters.
Veritas vos liberabit
."

"No, Charlie. Sometimes the truth will imprison you."

Chrissy wore an ivory linen suit with a fitted jacket and fabric-covered buttons. The pleated skirt stopped just above the knee. It was an innocent outfit if I've ever seen one.

The clerk of the grand jury asked if I promised to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.

I allowed as how I would. My palms weren't sweaty and my nose didn't grow. Lightning didn't sound in the distance and the wind didn't rattle the windowpanes.

I sat on the witness stand and marveled at the different view, looking toward the gallery. Abe Socolow approached me and asked a bunch of preliminary questions, including whether he could call me Jake, inasmuch as we'd known each other all these years. I said he'd called me a lot worse, so he got down to business.

"And when you entered the home of Guy Bernhardt the night before last, what did you find?"

"Guy Bernhardt was aiming a shotgun at Chrissy Bernhardt, and she was aiming a Beretta 950 at him."

Abe had me identity the two weapons, the massive shotgun and the little pistol.

"Did either party threaten to shoot the other?" Abe asked.

"They each threatened the other," I said.

"What did you do, Jake?"

"I asked Guy to put down the shotgun, and he refused."

"Then what happened?"

"Two shots were fired, one by each of the parties."

"Who fired the first shot?"

Chrissy looked at me with haunting green eyes. Seeking, pleading. Abe Socolow stood a foot away, his hand resting on the witness chair. Twenty-three grand jurors, solid citizens all, waited for me to answer.

So I did.

I followed Charlie's advice.

Half of it, at least.

I did what I thought was right.

To Speak For The Dead
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Night Vision
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Mortal Sin
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False Dawn
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Riptide
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Fool Me Twice
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Impact
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The Road to Hell
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Ballistic
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______

______

Linebacker-turned-lawyer Jake Lassiter is back in "FOOL ME TWICE," this time defending Blinky Baroso, a "repeat customer" and unrepentant con man. In lieu of a fee, Blinky forks over stock in Rocky Mountain Treasures, Inc., and that's where Lassiter's problems begin. The stock is phony; Blinky's partner is found dead; and Lassiter is the prime suspect.

To find the real killer, Lassiter follows a trail of evidence to an abandoned silver mine under the ski slopes in posh Aspen. That's where a priceless artifact of the Old West may be buried: the missing Silver Queen statue from the 1893 World's Fair. Or is that just a "Maltese Falcon," the stuff dreams are made of?

Either way, a homicidal rancher is after the treasure, and so is Blinky. Then there's Lassiter's ex-girlfriend Jo-Jo, Blinky's sister. Why is she suddenly trying to re-kindle the ancient romance with Jake?

It all leads to an explosive finale underground where Lassiter confronts his checkered past and his precarious future.

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR "FOOL ME TWICE"

"Wildly entertaining blend of raucous humor and high adventure." —
St. Louis Post-Dispatch

"A fast-paced thriller filled with action, humor, mystery and suspense. —
The Miami Herald

"Delicious." —
Los Angeles Times

"FOOL ME TWICE"
and the entire Jake Lassiter series are available on
Amazon Kindle
,
Nook
, and
Smashwords
.

Louis "Blinky" Baroso squirmed in his chair, tugged at my sleeve, and silently implored me to do something.

Anything.

Clients are like that. Every time the prosecutor scores a point, they expect you to bounce up with a stinging rejoinder or a brilliant objection. This requires considerable physical and mental agility, something like prancing through the tires on the practice field while reciting Hamlet.

First, you've got to slide your chair back and stand up without knocking your files onto the floor, and preferably, without leaving your fly unzipped. Next, your expression must combine practiced sincerity with virtuous outrage. Finally, you have to say something reasonably intelligent, but not so perspicacious as to sail over the head of a politically appointed judge with a two-digit IQ. For me, the toughest part is simultaneously leaping to my feet and veiling "objection" while buttoning my suit coat. Sometimes, I slip the top button into the second hole, giving me a cockeyed look, and probably distracting the jurors.

Blinky's eyes pleaded with me.
Do something.

What could I do?

I patted Blinky's forearm and tried to calm him, smiling placidly. The captain of the
Hindenburg
probably displayed the same serene demeanor just before touching down.

"Chill out and stop fidgeting," I whispered, still smiling, this time in the direction of the jurors. "I'll get my turn."

Blinky puffed out his fleshy cheeks until he looked like a blowfish, sighed and sank into his chair. He turned toward Abe Socolow, who was strutting in front of the jury box, weaving a tale of deceit, corruption, greed, and fraud. In short, Honest Abe was telling the life story of Blinky Baroso.

"This man," Socolow said, using his index finger as a rapier aimed directly at Blinky's nose, "this man abused the trust placed in him by innocent people. He took money under false pretenses, never intending to perform what he promised. He preyed on those whose only failing was to trust his perfidiously clever misrepresentations."

Socolow paused a moment, either for effect, or to round up his adjectives. "What has the state proved this man has done?" Again, the finger pointed at my presumably innocent client, and the cuff of Socolow's white shirt shot out of the sleeve of his suit coat, revealing silver cuff links shaped like miniature handcuffs. In prosecutorial circles, this is considered haute couture.

"The state has proved that Louie Baroso is a master of deceit and deception," Socolow announced, answering his own question as lawyers are inclined to do. "Louie Baroso is a disreputable, manipulative, conscienceless sociopath who gets his kicks out of conning people."

I thought I heard Blinky whimper. Okay, now Socolow was getting close to the line. Still, I'd rather let it pass. An objection would show the jury he was drawing blood. But then, my silence would encourage him to keep it up.

"This defendant is so thoroughly corrupt and completely crooked that he could stand in the shadow of a corkscrew," Socolow said with a malicious grin.

"Objection!" Now I was on my feet, trying to button my suit coat and check my fly at the same time. "Name-calling is not fair comment on the evidence."

"Sustained," said the judge, waving his hand in a gesture that told Socolow to move it along.

Unrepentant, Socolow shot his sleeve again, fiddled with one of the tiny handcuffs, and lowered his voice as if conveying secrets of momentous portent. "A thief, a con man, and a swindler, that's what the evidence shows. Both Mr. Baroso and his co-defendant, Mr. Hornback, are guilty of each and every one of the counts, which I will now review with you."

And so he did.

# # #

My attention span is about twelve minutes, a little more than most jurors, a lot less than most Nobel prizewinners. I knew what Abe was doing. In his methodical, plodding way, he would summarize the evidence, all the time building to a crescendo of righteous indignation. While I was half listening, scrupulously not watching Socolow so that the jurors would think I was unconcerned with what he said, I scribbled notes on a yellow pad, preparing my own summation.

I 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.