Past Due (7 page)

S
HE WAS DRESSED
for the part of the woman trailing trouble, a tight, bright dress, hair done just so, lips painted dark, a mad glint in her eye. I noticed her in the back of the courtroom noticing me. I noticed her noticing me and I liked it.

We are popinjays, all of us, we trial lawyers, puffing out our chests and playing to the crowd, even when the courtroom is empty of all but a strange woman in the back row. I glanced her way, caught her smile in my heart, and turned back to the cop on the stand and the business at hand, a motion to suppress.

Rashard Porter was a good kid, talented and sweet-natured, none of which precluded him from driving around in a stolen car with a joint the size of a megaphone on the front seat. The car was lent to him by his cousin, he explained to me. He didn’t know it was stolen, he explained to me. And the spliff was something he bought to impress this girl he had a thing for, he explained to me. His explanations might have been true, but they didn’t mitigate that he was driving around in a stolen car with a joint the size of a megaphone on the front seat. He had been stopped, the joint had been spied, the car had come up on the computer as stolen, and Rashard was neck-deep in the outhouse.

But that’s what I do. I’m a lawyer. I shovel crap.

“Now your testimony, Officer Blackwood,” I said to the cop on
the stand, “was that you were parked on Parkside when you saw the defendant drive by.”

“That’s right.”

“And he was driving the Lexus, right? Silver. Sharp.”

“He was driving something.”

“Did you recognize it as a Lexus when he drove by?”

“I suppose.”

“How far from Wynnefield Avenue were you parked when you saw him?”

“About fifteen yards.”

“Forty-five feet back, so the passing cars couldn’t see you until it was too late.”

“That’s right.”

“Sitting there in your stakeout, looking for scofflaws.”

“That’s right.”

“And you testified you noticed my client because of his high rate of speed.”

“Yes.”

“How fast was he going exactly?”

“I don’t know, exactly.”

“Did you have the radar on him?”

“No.”

“No radar?”

“I was working on something else at the moment.”

“Wiping the powdered sugar off your uniform, no doubt. And then you saw him run the red light.”

“That’s what I testified to, yes.”

“From forty-five feet back, you saw him run the stoplight not on Parkside, but on St. George’s Hill.”

“That’s right.”

“How far away was that light?”

“About forty yards.”

“One hundred and twenty feet? And wasn’t there a tree in your way, a big old sycamore?”

“There was a tree, but I could see around it.”

“It’s a big tree, isn’t it? Thick?”

“It’s a tree.”

“A big old sycamore. And from forty-five feet back on Parkside that big old sycamore was blocking your view of the intersection. I have photographs that will show this to be the case.”

“So maybe it wasn’t exactly forty-five feet.”

“Oh, so maybe not exactly forty-five feet. But whatever it was, as he drove by your stakeout, you could see my client’s face through the window, right?”

“I suppose.”

“A young black man driving by in a fancy silver Lexus.”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

“And that’s why you chased after him, not because of the high rate of speed or because of the traffic violation, which you couldn’t possibly have seen, but because of his color and because of the make of the car?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

“Your Honor,” I said. “This question is at the heart of our motion. The officer couldn’t see the intersection but he could see the driver, a young black man driving a fancy car, and that’s why he zoomed out of his stakeout and chased my client.”

“The officer testified he could see the intersection,” said Judge Wellman, a large round man with a small head and a high tinkling voice.

“It’s a big tree, Your Honor. My investigator, Mr. Skink, who is in the courtroom and ready to testify, has all kinds of photographs showing that big old tree blocking Officer Blackwood’s line of sight. The reason he stopped my client was that my client fit a certain profile, which the Supreme Court of this state has repeatedly called an improper basis for a stop, violating my client’s Fourth and Fourteenth Amendment rights and making the seizure of the stolen car and the drugs found therein fruit of the poisonous tree.”

“I understand the argument, Mr. Carl.”

“Obviously not, Judge, if you’re sustaining the objection.”

“Let’s wait a moment,” said Judge Wellman. There was a long pause. “Do you know what I’m doing now, Counselor?”

“What’s that, Your Honor?”

“I’m counting, quietly, to myself. My doctor has told me my blood pressure is too high and my wife has been teaching me to restrain my temper by counting to ten. I am now at twenty-four and my temper is not restrained. My wife will be very disappointed.”

“She’s not the only one, Judge.”

“Here’s some advice, Mr. Carl. Be quiet, be very quiet. Don’t say another word while I am still counting. And as for you, Miss Carter, does the District Attorney really want a potential profiling issue running up to the Superior Court on appeal? Is that what the District Attorney wants to see in the papers, knowing, as you do, Mr. Carl’s penchant for free publicity?”

“The one thing, I like to say, that money can’t buy.”

“Didn’t I tell you something, Mr. Carl.”

“I’ll zip it, Judge.”

“There you go. Now, I’m going to take fifteen minutes and continue counting in my chambers. If that doesn’t work, I’m going to take a pill and go home. While I’m gone, see if you two can take care of your business. Ms. Templeton?”

The judge’s clerk, a short squat woman with weight lifter’s arms, stood and said, “Yes, Judge.”

“Wait here with our friends, please. When they settle their differences let me know.”

“Oh, I certainly will,” said Clerk Templeton, turning toward us, crossing her arms, giving us the look. You know the look, what lunchroom ladies give to fifth graders who complain about the mystery meat.

After Judge Wellman fled the bench, I had a conversation with the Assistant District Attorney and then sat down beside my client. Rashard Porter was tall, handsome, with his hair shaved so flat on the top of his head you could shoot pool on it.

“The DA’s willing to drop all the charges having to do with the stolen car if you plead to misdemeanor drug possession.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you probably won’t go to jail. She promised to make a no sentencing recommendation to the judge. Judge Wellman acts like he’s a hard guy, but he’s not likely to give you more than probation.
It would be a lock without your priors, but still I think you’ll stay out of jail.”

“I don’t want to go back to jail.”

“I know.”

“I thought you said it was a bad stop.”

“I said I’d argue it was a bad stop. The cop says he saw you go through the red light and the judge appears willing to believe him, no matter what my investigator says. If we lose this motion you’ll get rung up on the auto theft felony in addition to the drug thing and jail time is a real possibility. We can appeal, but you’d be in jail while it’s argued.”

“I don’t want to go back to jail.”

“I know you don’t, Rashard. Did you get that application you sent away for?”

“Yeah.”

“You going to fill it out?”

“We don’t got no typewriter or nothing.”

“Bring it to my office. I’ll have my secretary type it up for you.”

“I don’t know, bunch of geeks talking about a bunch of dead guys.”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of higher education, except the students at Philadelphia College of Art aren’t geeks and they spend most of their time drawing and painting, not talking. You like to draw, don’t you?”

“Sure, yeah, but, you know, that ain’t real.”

“Who says? Are you letting your boys on the corner tell you what’s real? I’ll do what I can to help you out with the school. They have scholarships. You’re talented, Rashard, you should be doing better things with your life than driving around in stolen cars and buying drugs to impress girls.”

“I told you, I didn’t know it was stolen.”

“You know they have nude models at that school.”

“Get out my face.”

“It’s the truth, Rashard.”

“What do you think I should do, Mr. Carl?”

“Take the plea, apply to school, take a chance on yourself.”

“You think I can do it?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Aiight, Mr. Carl. Aiight.”

I walked over to Clerk Templeton to give her the news.

“It took you long enough,” she said.

“The wheels of justice are not always swift.”

“And from what I can tell, neither are the lawyers. I’ll tell the judge.”

Judge Wellman nodded as he took the plea, sending Rashard home on his own recognizance, setting the sentencing date for three weeks hence so the judge could get a full presentencing report. By that date, with any luck, Rashard would have some good news to tell the court. No judge would send a kid to jail on a drug misdemeanor when he had solid plans for the future. I explained all this to Rashard and made him promise to show up at my office first thing next week so that my secretary could help him with his application.

As I watched Rashard saunter out of the courtroom, my eye, like a shirtsleeve on a nail, caught again on the woman in the back. She tossed me a smile, stood, and began walking toward my place at the defense table. Her head bowed forward seductively, her arms swung freely, leather portfolio rising and falling, her smile inched wider. She was like a model on a catwalk until she stumbled in her shiny high heels and fell onto her face.

B
EFORE
I
COULD
reach her she had scrambled back to her feet and was straightening herself.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe I just did that. I am sooo clumsy. And these shoes are mad hot, but who can stand in them? Hi. You’re Victor Carl, right? Your office said you were here at the courthouse, and I asked around and found you, which is good because I could have been here all day going from room to room to room. There are so many courtrooms here, it’s slightly ridiculous. How many do they need? What they should do is knock down some walls and build a food court. A food court for the courthouse. Couldn’t you go for an Orange Julius right about now? Okay, okay, okay, let me get settled first before I begin.”

She took a deep breath and, as her outstretched hand fanned her chest, I examined her more closely. Her skin was smooth and flawless, her eyes bright and unlined, her neck taut. She was dressed like a corporate killer but she was far too young for the role.

She reached into her portfolio and pulled out a card. “Here, let me give you this first, so you know who I am. That’s the first thing we should do, right, exchange cards? Does that mean you’re supposed to give me yours?”

“You already know who I am,” I said.

“Oh yeah, duh, right.” She slapped the side of her head.

I tore my gaze away from her pretty eyes to read the card. It had a name:
Kimberly Blue
; a title:
Vice President;
and three phone numbers: office, cell, and fax.

“So you’re Ms. Blue?”

Her smile was near to incandescent. “Isn’t that something? I’ve never had a card before, I mean a real card. They have those things you can print up on the computer, and one of the girls made us each some at the sorority with our phone number and the pretty floral border, which we would sometimes give out if the boy wasn’t a total loser, but this is quality, isn’t it? You can feel the printing. It’s raised. Feel it. See?”

“And you’re a vice president.”

Her eyes widened with a joyous disbelief.

“Vice president of what?” I said.

“External relations. Let me see, how did he explain it? I’m the one who interfaces with everyone outside that does stuff for my boss, like caterers, dentists, computer guys, cleaning staff, lawyers.”

“In order of priority.”

“Exactly. I’m supposed to keep track of everything, make sure everyone knows what needs to be done, make sure everyone is happy.”

“And who is your boss, Kimberly?”

“The thing is, Victor…It’s okay to call you Victor, isn’t it?”

“Sure.”

“Good. I haven’t dealt much with lawyers, other than on TV, so I don’t know if you’re supposed to be all formal or if it’s okay to say just the first name like you’re a regular person. My daddy always said after you shake hands with a lawyer you ought to count your fingers so you can probably figure we did our best not to have much contact with the legal profession.”

“Most people avoid us until they have no choice. But you were going to tell me who your boss is.”

“Yeah, well, the thing is, Victor, the thing of it is…”

“Go ahead.”

“I’m not allowed.”

“Not allowed?”

“No, but he does want to hire you, really. He’s heard only good
things. Says you’re quality. He wants you to work on something really important.”

“But who would I be representing?”

“There’s a company. I own some shares, not much, but really now. How cool is that?”

“Quite cool. And who in this company would I be dealing with?”

She tilted her head and looked at me as if I were an utter idiot. “Helloo. I’m the vice president in charge of external relations.”

“Listen, Kimberly, I don’t—”

“Maybe you should call me Miss Blue, seeing as I am, like, an executive now.”

“What is this all about?”

She looked around the courtroom. Judge Wellman had retired to his chambers for the day, the bailiff and court reporter had left their posts; of the official members of the court, only sullen Clerk Templeton was in the courtroom, giving us that look as she worked on her files. Other than the clerk, just my investigator, Phil Skink, was still around, sitting in the back, watching our conversation with an amused smile on his scarred face. She noticed him too—Skink was so ugly he was impossible not to notice—and then she turned to me and nodded her head in his direction, trying subtly to let me know he was there.

I flexed a finger and Skink slunk out of the courtroom.

“It’s private enough,” I said.

She looked back at the empty spot where Skink had been sitting. Now convinced, she opened her portfolio and rummaged around and came out with a stenographic pad, the pages of which she flipped through before finding what she needed.

“Joseph Parma,” she said softly.

I stared at her for a long moment. “He was a client.”

“Yes, we know.”

“Mr. Parma died ten days ago,” I said.

“Right.”

“Murdered.”

She stretched her mouth as if she had just knocked over a vase. “Sorry about that. Such a thing. Brutal, eh?”

“Yes it was.”

“They find out who did it?”

“Not yet.”

“We might be able to help.”

“Excuse me?”

“Maybe we should talk someplace more private, do you think?”

“If you know anything about the murder, you should tell the police. Did you know Joey?”

“Me, personally? No. Though I heard he was quite a quality fellow. But we were just kind of wondering if maybe you had any sort of conversation with Mr. Parma before he died?”

“He was a client.”

“Helloo. I know. That’s why I’m asking.”

“I can’t tell you anything he told me. He was a client.”

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s, like, a rule.”

“But he’s dead.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“That’s a stupid rule.”

“Tell the Supreme Court.”

“Why would I tell them?”

“How old are you?”

“Do you think that question is appropriate?”

“I was just wondering?”

“I’m twenty-one.”

“And already a vice president.”

“Doesn’t that totally rock? Isn’t that just the best?”

I glanced at my watch. “Right now I have to be upstairs in another courtroom. Why don’t we meet next week in my office, we’ll talk about everything, Joey Parma, the company you work for, and your boss.”

“I’m not allowed to talk about him, remember?”

“Sorry, I must have forgotten. And you said you also had a case for me?”

“Yes, Victor, we have a case we’d like you to handle.”

“And it involves Mr. Parma?”

“Indirectly.”

“If I do elect to take the case, I’ll need a retainer.”

“Orthodontia? Are we talking orthodontia here, Victor?”

“Talk to your boss, he’ll know what I’m talking about. My office, Monday. Let’s say ten?”

“Fine. I have the address written down here somewhere.”

“See, I told you you didn’t need my card.”

I walked with her down the aisle and held the courtroom door for her. She gave me a smile and shook my hand. Her skin was remarkably soft and there was an awkward moment, as if she thought we should air kiss or something. The firm and distant business handshake was not yet part of her repertoire, but the blinding smile certainly was. She grasped her portfolio to her chest like a high school girl before starting down the hallway.

I was watching her leave as Phil Skink sidled up to me. “Who’s the twist?” he said.

I handed him her card.

“Nice-looking thing, no doubting that,” he said.

As she continued down the hall one of her heels wobbled and she almost fell before catching herself. Without looking back she continued on.

“She’s twenty-one,” I said, “and a vice president.”

“They’re minting them vice presidents younger and younger these days, ain’t they.”

“Seem to be.”

“You ever been a vice president, Vic?”

“Not even of the chess club in high school.”

“So what’s our little miss vice president of?”

“Follow her and find out.”

“Ah, it’s like that, is it?” he said. “You owes me three-fifty for today.”

“I know.”

“And this’ll be more.”

“I’m good for it.”

“I hopes so, Vic. A man gots to eat.”

I gave him a quick glance, up and down. “From what I can tell you’re doing fine. But as for the girl, don’t let her know what you’re up to. Find out what you can about her and her employer. I put her
off a bit so you would have some time. Let me know before ten on Monday morning. She mentioned Joey Cheaps.”

“The one what got his throat slit down by the river?”

“Our vice president seems to think she knows why.”

“Interesting. And if she does?”

“I know an old woman who is sharpening her knives.”