David Ellis: The Hidden Man

“That seemed like a pretty big deal,” Sammy said.

It was, especially for me. I had joined Shaker, Riley and Flemming only about a year earlier, after being a county prosecutor. The pay jump was tremendous, and Paul Riley’s law firm was the place to be. When Paul tapped me to assist on the Almundo defense, and then we somehow managed to pull out a not-guilty, I was established. I was in. I was set, at the finest litigation shop in the city.

My family was a different story. Talia had had a rough pregnancy, especially near the end, and then delivered Emily as we were on the cusp of trial. Talia wasn’t deaf to my need to establish myself in my career, but still, it was hard to sell the trial to a first-time mother trying to care for a newborn by herself day and night.

Therein was the irony. It was after I was left with an empty house, and basically fell apart, that I left the law firm that had cost me such precious time with my wife and daughter.

“I mean, there we was, watching the news, and I see you on there, and I told everyone, I knew that guy, we were-we used to be-”

Sammy didn’t complete the sentence. We both sensed the awkwardness. Used to be . Used to spend every waking moment together. Used to be so close that we called each other brother.

“So-how’s Pete?” he asked, changing the subject.

My brother Pete, five years my junior, lives in the city like me. He’s hit a bump or two along the way, struggled with drugs a little, but he’s a good egg, and I think he’s on a straight course right now. Then again, I’m not exactly one to judge.

“You know my mom passed,” I said.

“Yeah, heard that. Heard that.” He gestured at me without looking in my direction. “Jack’s still”-he gestured with his head-“y’know-”

“Inside, yeah.” He was talking about my father. Sammy and I referred to Jack by his first name behind his back, a minor rebellion. My father’s fourth strike came about three years ago. He should probably be good for parole within the next few years, but I haven’t done the math and don’t plan to do so.

“You married?” he asked me. He smiled. “Bet you got a hot wife, right?”

“ Had one,” I said. It wasn’t fun to acknowledge it, but in an odd way it felt good to pass on some misfortune of my own to the man who had spent much of his adult life in prison, and who could well be on the way to many more years at the same address. Maybe it leveled the field ever so slightly.

Sammy stubbed out his cigarette and grew quiet. I thought to ask him why he took so long to contact me-he’d been arrested almost a year ago and he waited until a month out from trial to get in touch with me. But it wasn’t hard to imagine his reluctance. Sammy was always fiercely proud, and it was probably killing him to come to me for help.

“This is the guy who killed Audrey,” Sammy said. “You know that, right?”

“I know, Sam.”

“This asshole deserved to die. Right?”

“Right,” I agreed. It felt like he was looking for justification, which meant that he was acknowledging that he had killed Griffin Perlini. But I didn’t push the subject. Defense attorneys never do. And I was his attorney first, friend second-if I’d be his attorney at all.

“So,” Sammy said, “can you help me?”

It was a question I literally couldn’t answer, which, I suppose, was an answer in itself. I’d been back on my feet for six weeks, and I’d gotten some good results for some clients, but this was a first-degree homicide with all kinds of complications and little time to prepare. The cases I’d handled were mostly bench trials with only a witness or two, and the truth was, I was mostly winging it, hoping to take advantage of less experienced prosecutors and looking for a lucky break here or there with a missing witness or lost documents. I could do that. That was easy. This case would require dedication, consistency, and full work days, and the price of fucking it up would be my old friend Sammy Cutler spending his life in jail.

So of course I said, “Sure, Sammy,” and shook his hand.

HALF PAST THREE in the morning. We navigated the bar, my brother and I, a place that opened six months ago, a series of rooms belowground, like a trendy coal mine, everything bathed in artificial blue light, the bass thumping like a migraine through the club, smoke and cologne and alcohol reaching a gag in my throat as beautiful people glided past us, trying their best to look intriguing and glamorous.

Pete wasn’t as drunk as I was because he actually gave a shit about making an impression. He was looking to meet someone, which put him in company with the other five hundred people crammed into this fire-code violation. Pete was five years younger; he drew the longer straw in the charm and looks department, while I got the athleticism and ambition.

“Two o’clock,” he said, turning back to me in what passed for a whisper among the pandemonium, which meant it was just short of screaming into my ear.

I started to correct him when I realized he wasn’t informing me of the hour but directing me through the stampede to a gaggle of young ladies sitting around a small circular high table. I stifled an objection, because I could hardly expect Pete not to be looking. He was young, handsome, and single. Why the hell shouldn’t he be hitting on women?

And what had remained unspoken these last few months was that, while Pete was on the make and I was anything but, it was actually my idea to kill most of these nights out at the clubs. I still hadn’t grown comfortable spending time in the house where Talia and Emily and I lived together, nor could I bring myself to sell the place.

So I found myself playing wingman as Pete made his approach. By the time I was close enough to hear what little brother was saying, two gals were already laughing. The kid had a gift for it, something he got from our dad. Then again, these women seemed like their inhibitions had been loosened by alcohol a good three or four hours ago. There were four of them, young and shapely, in revealing outfits, their hair done up. Two were white, one Asian and one African American. They looked like they came out of a sitcom on NBC.

“Which one of you is Phoebe?” I asked, but none of them could hear me.

“This is Jason,” Pete said. “My brother.”

They seemed to think that was cute, at least the Asian one did. They seemed generally interested in Pete’s banter, though their eyes moved about the room, too, scoping the place for other men. Or maybe women. I know if I were a female, I’d be a lesbian.

“Be right back,” Pete said. “Gotta take a leak.”

I gave Pete a look. I didn’t typically inquire of my brother’s scatological needs, but Pete had a history here. Before I could say anything to him, things turned even worse: the music changed to that song by Fergie, not the Dutchess of York, but the one who is booty-licious or something like that. And I didn’t think I could feel worse.

“What do you do?”

The good thing about intoxication is I can get lost for a while, but the downside is that Talia always finds me again, and this is when it’s the worst, when the defenses are down, the emotions the rawest. I heard, in my head, that little vocalization Emily used to make, once she hit three months, something between a moan and a squeal, capping off at a delightful, high-pitched squeak-

“What do you do?”

I directed back to one of the white girls, who was leaning over the table at me. Based on her outfit and posture, it seemed important to her that I take note of her cleavage, so I made a point of not doing so.

“I’m a fortune-teller,” I answered.

“You are not.”