George Pelecanos: The Cut

“What if your defendant was a violent offender? I’m talking about a stone killer.”

“I would prepare a different defense. But I’d know that from the start.”

“But what if you found out about his acts after you’d taken on the case?”

Petersen didn’t answer right away. He was trying to read Lucas.

“I defend murderers often, Spero. You know that. It’s what I do.”

“You don’t take on everyone who offers you money.”

“True,” said Petersen. “I’ve refused clients before simply because I didn’t like them. Because there was no conscience or humanity in their eyes. On occasion I’ve quoted outrageous fees to clients, knowing they couldn’t afford them or wouldn’t pay that kind of highway robbery on principle. It’s the easiest way to say no.”

“You’re missing my point.”

“I’m not,” said Petersen.

“Have you ever deliberately tanked a case?”

Petersen smiled and shook his head. “I’ve lost cases. I’ve lost them because I was insufficiently prepared, or I underestimated the prosecuting attorneys, or a witness underperformed on the stand. I’ve lost cases because…”

“What?”

“Because I wasn’t feeling well. Because my rhythm was off in court. I’ve lost cases, Spero, because I simply had a bad day.”

They sat there in the office, looking at each other, saying nothing. Neither of them cut his eyes away.

Lucas got up out of his chair. “Thanks for listening.”

“Do me a favor: when you’re working for me, make sure you shave. You’ll make a better impression out on the street.”

“I will, if you comb your hair and put on a tie.”

“I do, when I’m in court.”

“Were you mad when Mick and Keith kicked you out of the band?”

“Brian Jones. Very funny, but I’ve heard that before. Are you a Stones fan?”

“My dad was. He used to play Exile on Main St. front to back when we were riding around in his pickup truck.”

“Good record.”

“Listen, is Constance around?”

“No. She’s waitressing this summer. Said she needed to make some money for a change. I think she was trying to convey some sort of point.”

“Which restaurant?”

“You want the truth? She asked me not to tell you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know for sure. She said something about treating people right. She said you needed to learn.”

“I’m young,” said Lucas.

“ ‘Drink in your summer, gather your corn.’ ”

“Inspector Clouseau?”

“Jagger/Richards,” said Petersen. He reached his hand across the desk. “Glad you’re back.”

“Call me,” said Lucas. “I’m ready to work.”

Over the summer, Lucas did a couple of small, simple jobs for Petersen and one that involved murder and conspiracy charges that was much more intricate. Between his work and his physical routine, the daily bike rides and afternoons with his kayak on the river, he stayed busy. He bought a second vehicle, had it registered under a false name with the assistance of one of Nick Simmons’s friends, and kept it in a garage he rented with cash in one of the old alley dwellings east of the Hill. He bought a GPS Internet tracking device that he could access from his laptop or phone. He bought a carton of disposable cells. He was getting smarter about the way he worked.

There was a day trip to New York, organized by Leo, in which the brothers accompanied Ernest Lindsay on his first major excursion out of D.C. Their intent was to take him on an informal tour of the film school at NYU, where they hoped he would apply the following year. He had enrolled at UDC, but they felt that he needed to ultimately get out of Washington and broaden his world. He was smart enough, he had the grades, and he qualified for various minority grants and scholarships. Spero told Leo in private that he might be able to help out if there was a shortfall in the tuition; he felt he owed the young man at least that much. On the Acela ride back, Ernest could not stop talking about the city and the school.

Lucas had not been contacted by Larry Holley since the night they’d worked together to rescue Ernest Lindsay. A query e-mail to Tim McCarthy in IAB prompted a terse response sent from McCarthy’s personal account: “Larry Holley resigned from the MPD a month ago.” Lucas never learned where he’d gone.

In August he received an envelope in the mail with no return address. Inside was a faded trading card of Foghorn Leghorn, the oversize rooster from the Warner Brothers cartoons, with a slash of red Magic Marker through the character’s throat. On the back of the card, a note was written in block letters: Heard he got scratched. Nice work. The postmark told Lucas that the card had been sent from Frederick, Maryland, the hometown of Pete Gibson.

One humid night toward the end of the season, Lucas was riding his bike uptown, cycling past Wonderland, the bar at the corner of 11th and Kenyon, when he saw Constance Kelly seated at one of the outdoor tables, drinking beer with two other young women. Lucas turned around, cruised back to the patio, and came to a stop alongside her table.

“Hey, Constance.”

“Hi.”

She smiled. She didn’t seem mad at him, nor did her demeanor give him hope. She was simply being polite.

“Can I talk to you a second?” he said.

“Sure.”

He walked his bike along Tubman Elementary and she walked beside him.

“Where you been?” said Lucas.

“Working. I made a couple of trips down to the ocean. But mostly work.”

“Me, too.” Lucas caught her eye. “I called you a couple of times.”

“I know.”

“My phone takes calls, too.”

“Must be a real fancy one.”

Lucas stopped. “So what did I do wrong?”

Constance shrugged. “It wasn’t a long-term thing. We both knew that.”

“Something must have made you get off the bus.”

“I saw you one night, Spero, at the downstairs bar at Saint-Ex. You were with a woman. You were looking at her the exact same way that you looked at me when we were out and having a good time. And it came to me that I was nothing special to you. I was just one of many.”

“That’s not how I feel, though,” said Lucas. “You’re exactly the kind of person-”

“Please. Don’t do that.”

“I’m trying to figure things out, Constance. I missed out on the good part of my twenties. When everyone else was in college, going to parties and whatever, being young, I was in the desert. Now I’m here, catching up. I told you once before, I’m not ready to make plans.”

“I wasn’t looking for a commitment,” said Constance. “Just some courtesy.”

She went back to join her friends. Lucas swung onto the saddle of his bike and pedaled uptown, not yet understanding what he’d lost.

The Anwan Hawkins trial began late in August. Lucas did not speak to Tom Petersen during the proceedings, but he read about them daily in the Washington Post. Because the marijuana legalization movement was making inroads in D.C., the chronicle of this high-profile, high-volume weed dealer and his possible conviction made timely copy. The day after the jury reached its unanimously guilty verdict, the Post reporter assigned to the story quoted an unnamed courtroom witness: “It seemed to me that the defense’s closing arguments were oddly dispassionate and, at times, clumsily delivered.” Tom Petersen, normally light on his feet, had forgotten how to dance. He’d had a bad day.

One Sunday early in October, Lucas went to church. He took his seat beside the white-haired former teacher, noticing many of his friends and their families in attendance, and Leo and his mother front and center, in place. He recited the Creed and the Lord’s Prayer, followed along with the liturgy in the book, and when it was time he kneeled and gave his usual thanks, and added a prayer for the dead.