John Grisham: Partners

As he waited for instructions, he drifted across Little Angola. He checked the porch. Jameel was not there. He prayed he was at the Y. Tox called and told him to go to the Flea Market.

The Flea Market was a city block burned and leveled by the race riots of 1968. Over time most of the charred remains were bulldozed and cleared. All the owners were either dead, gone, or indifferent, and the city eventually planted some trees, built some pavilions, and put in sidewalks and a pond. It granted permits for street vendors and merchants, and all manner of goods were for sale. The Flea Market became a busy place not only during the day, when housewives shopped the stalls for food and cheap clothing, but especially at night, when buyers from all over the city eased into Little Angola for crack and other drugs. White kids felt the area was safe enough for quick transactions. Blacks knew who was dealing and where to go. The cops had learned that if they could keep most of the traffic confined to one area, the rest of the town would be safer. Somewhat. They watched the Flea Market but seldom interfered. The trafficking could never be stopped; thus, the current wisdom was to try and maintain some order to its flow.

Current wisdom also required an occasional foray into the pit. If the dealers were not intimidated, they would grow bolder and expand their turf. Killing one or two a year became the sensible strategy.

Following instructions, Tee Ray walked to the southeast corner of the block, the darkest part of the Flea Market, an area where the streetlights were shot out with air rifles each time the city replaced them. Behind a row of empty stalls, Tee Ray met another nameless colleague. He dropped his Goodwill overcoat, removed the vest, handed it over, and quickly transferred his entire inventory in a matter of seconds. The man disappeared without a word, and Tee Ray grabbed his coat off the ground. He called Tox, who instructed him to return to the warehouse for another run.

Crump Street bordered the south side of the Flea Market and it was lined with cars parked for the night. Tee Ray was walking briskly along the sidewalk, trying to muster the courage to call Tox and tell him he was finished for now. He had just earned $300 and wanted to go find his son. A sudden movement to his left and across the street caught his attention. A figure jumped from between two cars and yelled, “Police! Freeze!”

Tee Ray froze and threw both hands into the air.

“On the ground!” the cop yelled, and Tee Ray went to his knees, his hands still as high as he could reach. The cop sprinted across the street and emerged on the sidewalk a hundred feet in front of Tee Ray. He was white and stocky and was wearing jeans, a Blackhawks jersey, a rapper’s cap, and combat boots, and he appeared to be alone. He clutched a black pistol with both hands and aimed at Tee Ray as he advanced. “Get down!” he yelled.

“Don’t shoot, man!” Tee Ray said.

The cop kept coming in a low, awkward crouch, as if dodging gunfire, then he fired. The first shot hit the sidewalk in front of Tee Ray and sprayed flecks of concrete into his face. “Don’t shoot!” Tee Ray screamed as he frantically waved his hands over his head. The second shot grazed the bulky right shoulder pad of his oversized Goodwill overcoat. The third shot nailed his left elbow and spun him around. He screamed in pain as he scrambled desperately to crawl under a parked car.

“Don’t move!” the cop yelled. He fired again, and the fourth shot hit the side of the car. Tee Ray managed to get his.38 out of his pocket. He fired twice. The first shot missed everything. The second shot, a miracle, hit his assailant in the right eye.

Buck Lester had been an Eagle Scout, an honor student, an all-state wrestler, and a decorated Marine. He had crammed a lot into his twenty-eight years and had joined the police force after spending six boring months behind a desk. His time in Iraq had instilled a need for excitement, and once he became a cop he had quickly completed SWAT training and landed a spot on the undercover narcotics unit.

Narcs never work alone. Never. But on the night Buck was killed, his partner was spending half an hour with his favorite street hooker in a flophouse not far from the Flea Market. Alone, Buck became bored and got tired of waiting. He crept through the streets of Little Angola, with one eye on the southeast corner of the Flea Market. He had been ordered to make a couple of arrests that night. A quota needed to be filled. When he saw the black guy with the oversized overcoat, he knew he had a mule.

His partner’s name was Keith Knoxel, a ten-year veteran with a thick disciplinary file. Knoxel had finished his business with the girl and was walking toward the Flea Market to find Buck. He heard voices close by, then gunfire, and ran to find it. Buck was on the ground, twitching, when Knoxel arrived. Knoxel aimed his gun at the black guy, who was crouched on the curb near a car.

He wished a thousand times he’d pulled the trigger.

The black guy stood, leaned on a car, tossed his weapon, threw up his hands, and said, “He tried to kill me, man.”

“Shut up!” Knoxel yelled.

Tee Ray’s elbow was burning and bleeding. To keep from getting shot again, he fell forward and lay facedown on the sidewalk, arms and legs spread as wide as possible. He was aware that the second cop picked up his gun. He was aware that the first one was groaning and gasping, the low, sick sounds of someone breathing their last. The second cop was barking into his radio.

Soon enough, Tee Ray heard sirens.

Sebastian Rudd’s law office had once been a Moose Lodge, then a tattoo parlor, then a bar that catered to low-end lawyers. The high-end crowd gathered for drinks in the fancy clubs atop the tall buildings where they worked or in the private clubs in midtown, places few street lawyers would ever be welcome. And that was fine with the street lawyers, as it was with the big-firm boys.

When the bar went down in a foreclosure, Sebastian finagled a loan and bought the building. It wasn’t much of a structure, more of an old clapboard house with additions stuck hither and yon, but what it lacked in architectural virtuosity was more than made up for in location. It was directly across the street from the city jail, a hideous, monolithic high-rise with inmates on fifteen floors and cops and lawyers crawling like ants around its doors.

Just down the street was the Old Courthouse, the heart of the city’s judicial system. Around the corner was the federal building, it too packed with courtrooms and judges and lawyers. One block over was the Central Police Station, another beehive of endless activity. And scattered conveniently among these buildings were all manner of shops owned and rented by bail bondsmen, private investigators, and street lawyers.

Sebastian Rudd was one of many. Ten years out of law school, he was steadily gaining the reputation of a lawyer who wasn’t afraid of the courtroom. Though no one kept score, he’d probably had more jury trials than any other lawyer his age. Almost all his clients were criminal defendants, most of whom Sebastian represented because he wanted the courtroom experience. He had plenty of business, though he longed for clients who could pay nice fees. They would come, he kept telling himself. Build your reputation as a skilled courtroom advocate, and you’ll never lack for clients.

Early in his career, Sebastian had realized that most lawyers, even his street brethren, really didn’t want to face juries. They talked a good game. They liked to brag about their trial calendars. They bored each other with tales of courtroom heroics. But, as Sebastian learned, trial work is incredibly stressful. It’s impossible to have a good time when a jury is in place, and most lawyers preferred just to talk about trial work. They hustled about the courtrooms making deals and plea agreements, getting motions and orders signed, and doing all manner of frantic legal work to make a buck. But give them a deadline facing a jury, and most would manage to avoid it.