Joel Goldman - Deadlocked

"You look like hell," she told him.

His hair was ratty, his face unshaven, and his jail jumpsuit didn't cover the smell of sweat, blood, and guts. "Tuesday is casual day at the county jail," he said.

Patrick Ortiz, the prosecuting attorney, came in through the same door. "Take off his cuffs and ankle bracelets and wait outside," he told the guards. "Sit down," he told Mason when the guards left.

Mason remained standing and rubbed his wrists as he and Ortiz studied one another, Ortiz tossing a hand in the air saying have it your way. They had battled in the courtroom more than a few times, Mason always careful not to underestimate him. The prosecutor was an Everyman, unassuming, with a thrown together, soft-bellied look that deceived inexperienced lawyers. He talked to jurors like they were on the same bowling team, putting them at ease, making them like him, knowing that a verdict was often a popularity contest between the lawyers. He left nothing to chance and had filled a lot of vacancies on death row.

Ortiz had gone after Mason in the past, trying to link him to an arson, not making it stick. They respected each other as adversaries, but they weren't friends.

"Patrick," Claire began. "You're not going to question my client. I haven't even had a chance to talk to him yet. I want to see a judge about bail. What time is the arraignment?"

Mason was weary, off-balance, but not enough to make the mistake of representing himself again, mindful of Abraham Lincoln's admonition that a lawyer who did so had a fool for a client. He also wasn't ready to be cross-examined by Ortiz and he was glad Claire was there to keep Ortiz off his back, though he knew she couldn't represent him past this meeting. She wasn't a criminal defense lawyer and, even if she was, she lacked the objectivity he needed. Still, seeing her square off against Ortiz, her spine straight, her attitude unmovable, he felt well protected and well represented, his doubts and suspicions about his parents' deaths shoved aside.

Ortiz smiled. "Lou, you better not stiff Claire on her bill. She was on me last night and first thing this morning and worked over the investigating officers in between."

"What time, Patrick?" Claire asked again.

Ortiz looked at his watch. "One o'clock. Judge Pistone."

"I want to see the detective's reports before then," Claire said. "And I want to know your position on bail. Lou is obviously not a flight risk or a threat. Make it reasonable and I won't fight you on it. We'll be ready to post bail by this afternoon."

"Claire," Ortiz said, "you'll get the reports before the preliminary hearing, just like everyone else. Your client is charged with first-degree murder with aggravating circumstances. Bail is tough to come by in a death penalty case. Judges don't like it when lawyers kill people, even if the victim is another lawyer. Neither do I. Take your time. We'll get him cleaned up before he sees the judge," he said, leaving them alone.

Mason embraced his aunt as she worked her fingers against the back of his neck. They held each other tightly, Mason carried back for an instant to days when such a hug meant everything would be all right, knowing that this time it might not be so.

"Blues called me," she said, letting go of him, taking a seat at the table.

"I'm glad he did," Mason said, pulling out a chair next to hers. "He must have followed Sandra and me when we left the bar, but I don't know why."

"He told me that from the look on both of your faces, you weren't going dancing. Harry says Blues has a cop's instinct for trouble."

"If he hadn't shown up when he did, I'd be dead," Mason said, telling Claire what had happened.

"That's not much to go on," she said when he finished. "Don't you remember anything else?"

"I didn't get a look at the killer. I can't prove he used a stun gun and I don't know how he got hold of the.44 I kept in my desk. I know that I shot Sandra, but I didn't kill her. The first bullet did." Mason pounded the table with the flat of his hand. "Christ!"

"It's not that bad," Claire said.

"Not that bad?" Mason asked. "It's worse than that. Now I know how Ryan Kowalczyk felt when he told the cops his story. Ortiz can't wait to hear me try mine out on the jury."

"So we've got a lot of work to do," Claire said. "Harry and Blues will help."

"Claire," Mason said, "you're the meanest son of a bitch in the valley, but this isn't your valley. You haven't handled a criminal case in years, let alone a death penalty case. I need you more than ever before, but I need a different lawyer."

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, clearing her throat. "Exactly what I would have said. Well then, who do you want?"

"Dixon Smith," Mason said. "As fast as you can get him here."

Dixon Smith met Mason in the basement of the courthouse, joining him on the elevator with Mason's escort of three sheriff's deputies. Mason was clean, shaved, and dressed in a new jumpsuit, the bright orange color labeling him guilty, the cuffs and ankle bracelets tagging him as dangerous.

"I understand you'd like to talk to me," Smith said, grasping Mason's cuffed hands, smiling broadly. The deputies flinched as the two men shook hands.

"Thanks for dropping by," Mason said.

He'd spent the morning pacing in his cell, expecting Smith to show up in time to prepare for his arraignment.

More than once, Mason had raced to court at the last minute, meeting a client for the first time, reassuring the client that he was ready, soothing his client's impatience with a confident smile and a good result. Mason chafed at being on the other end of the last minute and resolved never to be late again.

"I got tied up. Sorry, but you know the drill," Smith said.

Mason told him, "We're due in court in ten minutes. That enough time to figure out how to get me out on bail?"

Smith had a shaved head and a narrow face with a dark goatee dressing his chin, accenting his deep brown skin. He had a fat-free runner's frame with the forward lean of a man in a hurry, and he was nearly Mason's height. He wore a navy, chalk pinstripe suit, pale blue shirt, power red tie, gold coin cufflinks, and black shoes with a blinding shine. He tapped his fingers against a thin brown leather briefcase, keeping time against a tightly wound internal clock. The elevator was hot, jerking its way up seven flights. Mason felt the sweat against his back. Smith was cool and dry, his steady eyes holding Mason's, both men deciding whether this was going to work.

"You think I was just sitting by the phone with nothing better to do than hope your auntie would call?" Smith asked.

"No," Mason answered. "From what I've heard about you, I think you're up to your asshole in alligators defending gang bangers and dope dealers. I appreciate you squeezing me in, but I don't like being squeezed."

Dixon laughed. "Get used to it, man. Once you get a set of those orange threads, all you get is squeezed. I've got a full docket, but your auntie is a force of nature. She doesn't understand the word no."

The elevator stopped at the eighth floor and the deputies led Mason and Smith to a witness room. Smith cut between the deputies and Mason, turning to face them as Mason stepped into the room.

"Knock when it's time," Smith told the guards, closing the door. He tossed his briefcase on a small table against the wall. "Claire and Blues filled me in. Samantha Greer gave me a quick look at her report, though I couldn't tell whether that was because of me or you. I got a dollar in my pocket says there's some heavy history between the two of you. Ortiz would crap sideways if he found out she showed it to me, but that's the way the game is played. No law says we got to go into this arraignment blind."

"What do you think?" Mason asked.

"I think I got gang bangers and dope dealers hustling crack on the sidewalk outside City Hall that have a better chance than you do. You and your mysterious stun gunner are going to give Dr. Richard Kimball a run for his money the next time they remake The Fugitive."