Paul Levine - False Dawn

“Didn’t know,” I said. “My bedmates usually wait till afterwards.”

“This poor soul got carried away, used too much pressure with his legs, and strangled himself. Just an accident, that’s all.”

While I was trying to figure the moral of the story, the young women started drifting away. I wondered if it was my body language again, but then I noticed that the music had stopped and so had most of the talking. Our host, Matsuo Yagamata, had taken the stage. He was short and stocky and wore his custom-made English suit a tad on the tight side. His eyes were dark and bright, and he had the air of unquestioned authority that successful men acquire if they are not born with it.

W hen I had arrived at the party earlier in the evening, Yagamata smiled pleasantly and shook my hand with a grip that could crack walnuts. “Still in shape, number fifty-eight?” he asked, flattering me with the recognition and drawing attention to himself with the show of strength. “And how are my legal eagles at Harman and Fox?”

“Fine and dandy, as long as Yagamata Imports has us on retainer,” I replied.

He let my hand go and smiled. “Did you solve that duties problem on the European art, or do I have to bribe a customs inspector?”

You can never tell when some people are joking. “Better to pay your lawyers and let them sweet-talk the customs people,” I responded.

“Right. Bribes aren’t deductible.”

Okay, so he wasn’t joking. There had been a scandal in Japan, some government ministers on a secret payroll of his electronics exporting firm. With the investigation pending, Yagamata moved to Miami, a more forgiving place in both the private and public sectors. Businessmen here don’t earn their bones until they’ve been subpoenaed by a grand jury. Local politicians courting publicity gain greater name recognition once they’ve beaten an indictment for bribery or tax evasion. County commissioners once named a street after a major campaign contributor who also happened to be one of the largest drug dealers in town. With his lobbyists and legislator pals, Yagamata could have a whole subdivision christened in his honor.

“And what of our hotheaded Latino friend?” he asked. “Will it cost me a fortune to tidy up that little mess?”

That little mess. The rich have quaint ways of dealing with other people’s tragedies.

“I’m not doing Crespo much good right now,” I told him. “He’s covering for someone, and he’s going to get hit with major league time unless he opens up.”

Yagamata stared at me with those dark, impenetrable eyes. “He told you this?”

A grand jury couldn’t get that information out of me with a crowbar. But I was hesitant to brush off the guy paying Crespo’s bills with a speech about the sanctity of the attorney-client privilege. On the other hand, Crespo had told me to keep his boss informed. Senor Yagamata es mi amigo. I felt Yagamata’s eyes probing me. “I can tell he’s holding back,” I said, finally. “I’ve known Francisco Crespo a long time.”

“So I am told. It is fortuitous, is it not?”

For whom, I wondered. Maybe for Yagamata. Get one of his expensive lawyers to clean up that little mess, some nasty blood on the floor of his warehouse. “I’m not sure,” I said. “It makes it tougher for me. His mother is a saintly woman who’s anguished by what’s become of him.”

“Ah, now I see. You are a sentimentalist.”

“I just like to help out people who’ve helped me.”

“An excellent quality. So what is stopping you?”

“Crespo told me a cock-and-bull story about how he killed the Russian all by his lonesome. It didn’t hold up.”

Yagamata shifted his weight ever so slightly. A look of discomfort crossed his face before he chased it away. “The authorities, they also will not believe it.”

It was more of a question, and something struck me about it, but I couldn’t pin it down. A faint tone of disappointment maybe. Around us, bartenders poured Cristal champagne into fresh-squeezed orange juice, and a line ocean breeze stirred the palms.

Pleasant party noises were growing, the tinkling of glasses, animated chatter, and an occasional laugh. People just delighted with their own socially prominent selves.

“No, the prosecution will be so happy to close the case, Crespo will take the fall by himself. Keeping files open doesn’t help the state attorney’s statistics when it’s appropriations time.”

Yagamata smiled and let some light into his eyes. The foibles of government seemed to be something he understood. “Fine. If Mr. Crespo says he killed the man, who are we to say he did not?”

I’m not one of those self-righteous lawyers given to glorifying the lonely warriors of the courtroom, righting wrongs wherever we find them, blah, blah, blah. I’m just a lead-footed ex-linebacker trying to wade through the muck of the so-called justice system. I don’t even mind getting dirty so long as the stains come out. But I’ve also got a big mouth, and sometimes a guy who sits on my shoulder puts words into it.

“My job is to do my best for Crespo whether he wants it or not.” I sounded tight-assed, even to myself.

Yagamata’s smile disappeared. He appraised me, probably wondering if I was a fool. That made two of us. I had never worked directly for him before, but the corporate and international lawyers in the firm had been glomming six-figure fees from Yagamata’s business interests for several years. I was meandering on the fringes of an ethical thicket. No lawyer can serve masters with conflicting interests.

“I’m sure you will do your job splendidly, Mr. Lassiter,” Yagamata said. “But perhaps you read too much into the situation. If Mr. Crespo is shielding someone else, it could be from a sense of honor, a commitment he has made. In my country, that would be praiseworthy.”

“But it warps the system,” I said. Jeez, where was I getting this apple-pie and flag-waving stuff?

Little lines formed creases at the corners of his eyes and he chuckled. He liked bantering with me. Maybe nobody ever argued with him, even politely. “The system,” he told me pleasantly, “is made to be warped. If I had not retained you, Mr. Crespo would have employed the-”

“Public defender.”

“Yes, and the representation would have been, shall we say, perfunctory?”

I nodded and grabbed a mimosa from a passing silver tray. The orange bubbles sparkled in the torchlight. “The state’s case looks open-and-shut until you get into it, and the P.D.’s office is so overworked, they might not even talk to Crespo until just before the trial.”

“Then I would say that Mr. Crespo is quite fortunate to have you as his attorney and me as his employer.” Yagamata moved closer and used his broad back to shield us from the party guests. His voice was little more than a whisper. “They tell me you are a pleasant fellow and a decent if undistinguished lawyer, but that you have problems with authority.”

Who was I to argue with the truth? I downed the sparkling drink and kept listening.

“In my country,” he continued, “the failure to adhere to a rigid structure is considered a major personal failing.” Yagamata paused and looked toward the channel just off the patio where a huge Bertram chugged along at no-wake speed, its running lights glowing in the darkness. He seemed to resent the intrusion on his personal space. “On the other hand, I have always believed life is more interesting if you have your own identity. My country cultivates faceless technicians. A man needs personality, singularity. That is why I love your country so much, Mr. Lassiter. Land of the cowboys. Rugged individuals. You understand this, I know.”

Somehow I heard a “but” coming.

He gave me a wintry smile. “But it is one thing to be an individual and another to be disloyal to those who are willing to assist you. In our lives, Mr. Lassiter, we cross paths with many people. Most will be of little use. Loyalty to them is misplaced, a waste. Others will be in a position to further careers, to look after interests. Loyalty to these people will be rewarded. Disloyalty will bring shame and dishonor, pain and ruin.”