Paul Levine - Lassiter

“Why would I shoot that old man?”

“Castiel says you were trying to kill Ziegler and missed. Either way, it’s First Degree Murder.” I recited the murder statute from memory. “That’s the ‘unlawful killing of a human being perpetrated from a premeditated design to effect the death of the person killed or any human being.’ It’s the ‘any human being’ part that does you in.”

“But I didn’t shoot anyone!”

“Just speaking hypothetically. If you aim at Peter and hit Paul, it’s what the law calls ‘transferred intent.’ ”

As they say, a good lawyer knows the law. But as they also say, a great lawyer knows the judge.

“You believe me, don’t you, Jake?”

“When you lie in wait to kill someone, that’s the premeditated part of the crime.” I wasn’t done with my Crim Law 101 lecture. “Your hatred of Charlie Ziegler for your sister’s disappearance is the motive.”

“It wasn’t me! Jake, are you listening?”

“The penalty is life without parole.”

I let that sink in a moment.

Life. Without. Parole .

It’s forever and ever and ever, and the thought of it is nearly incomprehensible. Day after day of endless sameness. The same starchy, tasteless food. The thin, lumpy mattresses. Incompetent medical care. Lethal cellmates and pissed-off guards. The smells of sweat and disinfectant and the numbing noise, the clanging of steel doors, desperate voices echoing off concrete floors.

Amy’s face had lost its color.

I wondered if I’d forgotten anything. Oh, yeah. “There’ll be no bail pending trial, so try to get used to your surroundings. Don’t make friends with any of the other inmates. By that, I mean don’t talk to them about your case. If you do, you’ll have someone claim you made a jailhouse confession.”

I had one more item to bring up before talking about the evidence. “I need to ask you about that night when I called Castiel to ask him to dredge the canal.”

“Yeah?”

“You got mad at me and left.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Question is, did you come back later? Like in the middle of the night.”

“Why would I do that?”

“You tell me.”

“Okay, yes. I was going to apologize to you for the way I’d acted. Blaming you because Castiel was being a jerk.”

“So you pushed the front door open?” She’d seen me whack it with my shoulder and I recalled telling her that it was never locked.

“I’d had a couple drinks, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. But then your dog started barking. I panicked and left.”

I wasn’t sure about her story. Had she really been there to apologize? It was just as likely that she’d wanted to berate me some more. Or possibly even shoot me. With Amy, every turn in the road seemed to lead deeper into a maze.

“Two days ago, you told me someone broke into your motel room and stole your gun.”

“What about it?”

“Did you file a police report?”

“No. Why?”

“C’mon, Amy. You’re smarter than that.”

“Someone took the gun.”

“If the ballistics tie your Sig Sauer to the shooting, Castiel will send in a marching band and break out the champagne.”

“If my gun was used, someone else fired it.”

“Where were you last night?” I fired the question quickly, wanting to see if she blinked, reddened, or turned away.

“Nowhere near Ziegler’s,” she fired right back. A touch of anger, which was okay. “I was with a man.”

That surprised me. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Can’t tell you.”

“Why the hell not?”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“What’s that mean?”

“If he testified, his life would be in danger.”

“What about your life?”

She fingered the opening of her flimsy orange smock. “He wants to help, but I won’t let him.”

“That’s my decision, not yours. Give me his name.”

“I can’t.”

My lower back was throbbing again. “I’m thinking your alibi is bullshit.”

“You just have to trust me, Jake.”

“The hell I do. Lie to your priest or to your lover. But if you lie to me, I can’t help you.”

“I’m not! I wasn’t at Ziegler’s. I didn’t shoot anyone.”

I studied her, looking for the averted gaze, the tightened lips, the nervous twitch. Nothing.

“I’m innocent, Jake. Dammit, isn’t that enough?”

“Innocence is irrelevant! All that matters is evidence. So give me your alibi, or the jury will give you life.”

She took a moment to think it over before saying, “I’m sorry, Jake. You’ll have to win without an alibi.”

I pushed my chair away from the table and got to my feet. “Enjoy your stay, Amy. It’s gonna be a long one.”

The man was simply too large for the chair, Ziegler thought.

Nestor Tejada’s rhino shoulders spilled over the backrest. He propped his feet on the asymmetrical glass table, playing the big macher . Just like his late and unlamented boss.

Tejada had barged into the Reelz TV headquarters without an appointment, and Ziegler didn’t know what he wanted.

“So your bottom line is looking up,” Tejada said.

“Meaning what?” Ziegler didn’t like the way it was starting.

“You don’t have to pay Mr. P that fifteen percent anymore.”

Jesus. Perlow afraid of what I’d tell Melody and he’s shooting his mouth off to this frigging gangbanger .

“So you’ve got extra capital to put into the business,” Tejada continued. “Or extra cash to pull out, depending whether you’re thinking short term or long.”

“Who are you, Warren Buffet?”

“I studied Business Organization.”

“Bullshit.”

“At Okeechobee Correctional. But I learned more from Mr. P than any course.”

Sure you did. Perlow had a PhD in extortion .

Ziegler telling himself to be careful. He’d learned a long time ago not to judge a person’s intelligence based on appearances or upbringing. He’d known a couple of scary-smart porn stars in his time.

“I’m just wondering how you’re planning to use that extra dough,” Tejada said.

“Are you shaking me down?”

“I’m here to help you.”

“Screw that. You’re running a protection racket. Jesus, I thought you were out of the Latin Kings.”

“Ain’t like the Rotary Club, Ziegler. It’s blood in, blood out. You cut a throat to get in the door, and you don’t leave till you’re six feet under.”

“Lovely. Just lovely.”

“But I don’t need your money. Mr. P gave me a piece of his gaming business.”

“A piece?”

“My guys service the slots in Indian casinos. I got the company in Mr. P’s will.”

Un-fucking-believable. Max Perlow feeling all fatherly to Alex Castiel was one thing, but adopting this jailbird?

“Now, you wanna hear my idea for a new show?” Tejada said.

Ziegler immediately felt better. He leaned back and exhaled. The guy wanted to pitch him, not strong-arm him.

“Ideas, my friend, are the trash of the business,” he said. “Everyone has an idea for a show. The question is, who can take the little feathery notions that make up an idea and spin them into gold?” Repeating what he’d heard some legitimate producer say at a seminar. Stephen J. Cannell. Or Dick Wolf. Or Stephen Bochco. One of the big-timers.

“It’s called, ‘So You Wanna Be a Gangbanger,’ ” Tejada said, unperturbed.

He took a few minutes describing the show. Start with a dozen ghetto teens. They spray graffiti on expressway overpasses, then move on to shoplifting, purse snatching, car theft, maybe dealing some crank on street corners. Drive-by shootings with paintball guns, extra credit if you nail a cop. Real gang members decide who goes to the next level. In the season finale, there’d be an initiation ceremony, laced with sex and violence.