Эйс Аткинс - Kickback

“What about a public defender?” I said.

“Man at the court told us that teenagers don’t need an attorney,” she said. “He told it us that was for adult court only.”

“Everyone gets an attorney,” I said. “Even kids.”

She shook her head. “Not in Blackburn.”

I rubbed my jaw. I did this often while I was thinking. I’d seen detectives do this often in movies. It’s supposed to make you look smart and attentive. I repeated the gesture.

“Did an officer of the court tell you that?” I said. “Were you told you could not have an attorney?”

“I signed a paper,” she said. “They said everyone signed it.”

“But were you told it wasn’t an option?”

She thought on it for a moment and then nodded. A brisk wind shot into the storage room. I walked over to the door and asked her if she had a screwdriver and a hammer. I wasn’t exactly Bob Vila, and the job was ugly, but I helped get it back into the frame. It would close and she could lock it. I took a piece of scrap wood to replace part of the broken frame.

“Thank you,” she said, after I had finished.

We walked back through the market that smelled of exotic spices, ripe produce, and the pungent odor of the big fish tank. I contemplated buying an authentic wok for ten dollars. Trinh walked outside with me.

“I don’t want trouble,” she said. “I want my son back in school.”

“If Scali has denied lawyers for kids,” I said, “he could be in a lot of trouble.”

“Nobody will talk against that man,” she said. “No one knows what he does inside his court. How will you know?”

“I have an obsessive personality,” I said. “Keep talking to enough people and the truth will shake out.”

“You’re big,” she said. “Shake hard.”

8

I spent the afternoon waiting out Blackburn’s chief public defender. He didn’t return to his office until nearly six o’clock, and by that time I’d gone through every issue of American Lawyer , Entertainment Weekly , and Cape Cod from the last three years. The pictures of sunsets, lobsters, and picket fences were stunning. The latest news on Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt amazing. I was about to start from the top when a shabby man clutching a scuffed leather briefcase walked through the door.

Felix Bukowski wasn’t pleased to have a visitor. He looked to have had a long day in court, but the closer I got, it smelled as if he’d had a long day at the tavern. He was short and thick, with an enormous head. He looked like one of those guys who needed everything custom made, from hats to pants. He looked to be a twenty-eight inseam with a thirty-eight waist. His hair was long and slick and matched his sparse gray beard. I couldn’t tell if he was trying for the stubble look or just had forgotten to shave.

I followed him into his office, where he dumped his briefcase in a leather chair. He loosened an ugly flowered tie, took off his coat, and plumped down in a high-backed chair. “Yeah?” he said, massaging his temples. “How can I help you?”

I walked up close to his desk. “You want to stick around here or can I buy you another drink?”

“Who the hell are you?”

I offered my hand and introduced myself.

“Private eye?” he said, making a gun from his thumb and forefinger. “No shit.”

I was annoyed he’d stolen my patented gesture but let it go. “How about a beer?”

“After today,” he said, “how about a double Old Crow on the rocks?”

“I knew it,” I said. “A true connoisseur. Let’s go.”

We walked around the corner from the three-story brick office to a place called Jimmy’s Pub. Jimmy’s Pub looked the way a spot called Jimmy’s Pub should look. It had beer signs in oval windows and a couple taps filled with the latest flavors of Sam Adams. The liquor selection was somewhat limited, ranging from bottom-shelf to under-the-counter. But we were in luck. They had Old Crow. I had a feeling Bukowski knew this.

I ordered a Sam Adams Winter Lager.

The attorney upended the whiskey and swallowed down half before lowering the glass and wiping his lips. A corner jukebox was playing the best of Sinatra. Felix tapped his fingers as he listened to “Fly Me to the Moon.” I hoped on the next round he wouldn’t be standing on the bar and belting out “My Way.” I suffer enough for my clients.

“So are you going to tell me your case or not?”

“I work for the family of Dillon Yates.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Not surprised,” I said. “You didn’t represent him.”

“Then why are you here?”

A haggard woman missing two front teeth got up to slow-dance with a man in a flannel shirt and unlaced work boots. They could’ve taken a lesson or two from Arthur Murray.

Felix wistfully watched them.

“Trouble,” he said. “I got four ex-wives.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Last one wouldn’t shut up,” he said, motioning with his scruffy chin. “I want something like that.”

“Missing teeth?”

“Magic,” he said. “Ain’t no magic left.”

I ordered another round for Felix Bukowski. He wore a big tan parka over his suit. The hood lay loose around his big head, making him look like Nanook of the North. I drank the Sam Adams Winter Lager, which was my favorite and almost made up for the company.

An old Asian man sat at the end of the bar watching television with the sound turned off. It was an infomercial about growing hair from a can.

“You do much work in juvenile courts?”

“Kiddie court ain’t my thing.”

“But you do assign attorneys there?”

“If that’s what they want.”

He sipped on the drink. The bartender leaned against the cash register and lit a cigarette. Christmas lights blinked on and off from over the jukebox. They looked like they went up a few Christmases ago and just kept blinking on forever. The two lovebirds had disappeared.

“I understand Judge Scali doesn’t want attorneys in his courtroom.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“From parents who got it from his bailiffs.”

Felix shuffled in his chair. His mouth twitched a little and he rubbed a fat finger under his nose. He shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“Have you heard about kids being denied counsel?”

“No.”

“But on average, do kids want some help from your office?”

“I mean, they get their own, and sometimes they ask for assistance,” he said. “But if you’re trying to say we’re banned or something, that’s nuts.”

I sipped my beer. The old Asian man was entranced by the full head of hair on the test subject. He was drinking a lime-green-colored liquid. I was betting they didn’t serve absinthe at Jimmy’s.

“I understand there’s a waiver.”

“I thought you were a private eye on a case,” he said. “Not a troublemaker.”

“I multitask.”

“Hmm,” he said as he hiccupped. “I’ve been running this office for eleven years.”

“Congratulations.”

“I know people like to shit on public defenders,” he said. “But I help the people. I do for people who can’t hire hotshits from Boston.”

“Hotshits can sometimes be overrated.”

“You bet. But it doesn’t really matter who you are or what firm you’re from,” Felix said, making a considerable effort to turn on the bar stool and look me in the eye. “You could have F. Lee Fucking Bailey in Scali’s courtroom and still get time.”

“F. Lee Bailey is dead.”

“You know what I goddamn mean.”

I sipped my beer. I walked over to the jukebox and picked out a favorite by Wayne King. I returned to the seat and looked at Bukowski. “What if it were you,” I said. “If it were your kid. Would you be mad they didn’t offer assistance?”