Paul Levine: Lassiter

I’d had multiple concussions on the football field. Still, I thought I remembered all my disgruntled ex-clients and infuriated ex-girlfriends. Maybe she was a Florida Bar investigator, building a case against me for yet another insult to the dignity of the court. Or maybe just one of those women with bloodlust. You see them at boxing matches and bullfights and murder trials. Not usually a rinky-dink DUI.

At the next break, I intended to plop down beside her. If she didn’t serve me with a subpoena, I might ask her out for a drink.

“Motion for directed verdict. Do you want to hear argument, Judge?”

“About as much as Ah want to hit Dixie Highway during rush hour.”

“For the record, I’d like to state my grounds.”

“You can pour syrup on a turd, but that don’t make it a pancake. Got any more motions you want denied, Mr. Lassiter?”

“I’m plumb out.” Adopting a Southern accent of my own. Judge Philbrick peered at me over his spectacles, wondering if I was mocking him.

At the prosecution table, Flagler gave me his Ivy League snicker. If I wanted, I could dangle him out the window by his ankles. But then, I’d been picking up penalties for late hits while he was singing tenor with the Whiffenpoofs. Okay, so I’m not Yale Law Review, but I’m proud of my diploma. University of Miami. Night division. Top half of the bottom third of my class.

“You two want to talk a minute before Ah bring the jury in for closing?” Judge Philbrick picked up a cell phone and wheeled around in his chair to give us some privacy.

Flagler sidled up to me and said, “Perhaps it is a propitious time to discuss a deal.”

“If my client wanted to plead guilty, he wouldn’t need me.”

“We could recess, have a latte downstairs, and work it out.”

“I don’t drink latte, with or without a hint of nutmeg.”

“If I win, I’m asking for jail time.”

“Ooh, scary.”

Shaking his head, Flagler returned to the prosecution table and picked up his neatly printed note cards. The jurors filed back in, and Judge Philbrick ordered them to listen carefully to closing arguments, but to rely on their own memories, not those of the lying shysters. Actually, he said “learned counsel,” but everybody knew what he meant.

I glanced toward the gallery. Yep, the woman was still there in the front row. I gave her a neighborly nod. She took it and gave nothing back.

Flagler bowed obsequiously to the judge and thanked the jury for leaving their fascinating jobs and coming to the courthouse in the service of justice.

Or a reasonable facsimile thereof .

After twenty minutes, he sat down and I stood up. “How did my client blow a point-six when stopped by the police officer but only a point-zero-nine at the station?”

Judging from their blank looks, math was not the jurors’ favorite subject.

“I’ll tell you how,” I continued. “There’s no way! At point-six, my client’s breath could have ignited charcoal in a hibachi.”

Fearing he’d belch beer into the cop’s face, my too-damn-clever client had squirted enough Listerine into his mouth to disinfect a knife wound. The mouthwash vaulted the kid’s mouth alcohol off the charts, while the blood alcohol test accurately pinned the number at a notch above the lawful limit.

Oftentimes, complete dickwads are undeservedly lucky, while the good get crapped on by life’s endless shit storm. So it was with Pepito Dominguez, who inadvertently, but fortuitously, screwed up the alcohol tests.

“If the tests don’t fit, you must acquit!” I boomed.

Rest in peace, Johnnie Cochran.

After some more double talk and sleight of hand, I thanked the good citizens for not falling asleep and sat down. The judge recited his instructions, and the bailiff returned the jurors to their little dungeon to deliberate.

I spun through the swinging gate and plopped down next to Mystery Woman. Up close, she had full lips and a flawless complexion, without the hint of foundation, blush, or war paint. Her eyes were green with a touch of a golden sunset, her dark hair pulled straight back and held by a squiggly elastic band. Late twenties or early thirties.

“Hey there.” I gave her a lopsided grin that has been known to charm a number of barmaids.

“Hello, Mr. Lassiter.” No smile. No warmth. No nothing.

“Have we met before?”

“My name is Amy Larkin.”

She waited a moment, as if the name might provoke a reaction. It didn’t.

“So what brings you to the courthouse, Amy Larkin?”

“You do, Mr. Lassiter. I need to ask you some questions.”

Something in the way she said “questions” convinced me we weren’t going to be chatting over Happy Hour.

“Fire away,” I said.

She handed me the photo she had been holding. A small cocktail table in front of a stage. Pole dancer in the background. Front and center, two young women in string bikinis were draped over a thick-necked guy with shaggy hair and a bushy mustache the color of beach sand. The Sundance Kid with a shit-eating grin. Young. Cocky. Stupid.

I should know. The guy was me.

Embarrassing to look at now. I was a glassy-eyed drunk in a Dolphins jersey. Number 58. Not even traveling incognito. A red scab ran horizontally across the bridge of my nose. If you make enough helmet-first tackles, your face mask will take divots out of your flesh.

“Long time ago. Birthday party my teammates threw for me,” I said. “Where’d you get the picture?”

She ignored my question and shot back her own. “Do you know the girls?”

One of them, a big-boned blonde, had her arms locked around my neck, her enhanced breasts squashed against my chest. The other one was younger. Slender. Auburn hair. Girl-next-door looks. She was kissing my cheek.

“The one with coconut boobs was a stripper. Sonia Something-or-other. She hung around with one of my teammates. I don’t know the younger one’s name.”

“Krista.”

I flipped the photo over. On the back, someone had scrawled, “The Whore of Babylon.”

“Okay. The girl’s name is Krista. We’re in a picture together. So what?”

She gave me a look hard enough to leave bruises. “She was my sister.”

“Was?”

“She’s gone.”

“Gone meaning dead?”

“Disappeared and presumed dead.”

Except for the two of us, the courtroom was empty now and silent as a mausoleum.

“I’m sorry. I’m very sorry to hear that.” She studied me through hard, cold eyes. “But what’s all this have to do with me?”

“I think you know, Mr. Lassiter.”

“No, I don’t. So why not stop dancing around and just tell me?”

“You seem agitated, Mr. Lassiter. Why is that?”

“Because you’re playing me and you’re not very good at it. Where’d you learn your interrogation technique, Law amp; Order ?”

“Why would I need to interrogate you? Have you committed a crime?”

I stood up. “Cut the crap. If you’re not going to tell me what’s going on-”

“It’s quite simple, Mr. Lassiter.” Her eyes locked on mine, daring me to leave. “You’re the last person who saw Krista alive.”

I long-legged it down the corridor, Amy Larkin in pursuit. The Justice Building was emptying now, just a few straggling girlfriends and wives of defendants who show up at hearings, some blowing kisses, others hurling insults about unpaid child support and broken promises.

“So you’re not going to talk to me, is that it?” Amy raised her voice to my back.

“I don’t know anything about your sister’s disappearance. Got nothing more to say.”

“What happened that night? You can tell me that.”