Michael Baden - Skeleton justice

Manny checked her watch. "They'll be bringing Travis in any minute, Mrs. Heaton. You'd better step out into the hall."

"What? I want to see my son. I need to be with him when you talk to him."

"That's not possible, Mrs. Heaton. It would violate attorney-client privilege."

"But I'm his mother," Maureen Heaton wailed.

"Even so, now that Travis has turned eighteen, he's considered an adult. The government could call you as a witness against your son."

"I've been working my hospital job during the day and doing private-duty nursing at night to keep him in school. Do you understand? He's my child."

Manny felt her own eyes well with tears, but she blinked them back furiously. Getting emotionally involved with a client and his family did no one any good. Travis would be best served if she kept her emotions in check. "I'll make sure he's okay. I promise." Manny turned her impulse to hug into a brief pat on the shoulder and gently urged Travis's mother toward the dispassionate uniformed guard waiting to escort her out.

Another guard led Manny to a folding chair outside one of the confessional-like booths lining the wall of the narrow room. The door behind the Plexiglas partition opened and Manny watched a guard escort a thin, hunched young man with the makings of a scraggly beard up to the window.

He stared at Manny, managing to convey both belligerence and sullenness. From the dark rings under his eyes, he must have been awake all night.

This was one of the Preppy Terrorists?

Even if you replaced the orange prison jumpsuit with a navy blazer and club tie, this kid was not going to be appearing in a Brooks Brothers ad anytime soon. Where was the air of nonchalant entitlement? Where was the cocksure self-confidence? That's what parents sent their sons to places like the Monet Academy to acquire. Algebra and biology you could get at lesser institutions; Monet prepared boys to be masters of the universe. Travis might have been a straight-A student academically, but he hadn't acquired that Monet panache.

Manny picked up the telephone receiver, which would allow them to talk with limited privacy, while keeping her eye on the glowering guard by the door. She gestured for Travis to pick up his receiver.

He held it gingerly an inch or two from his ear, as if he suspected her of being able to transmit poison through the line.

"Travis, I'm a lawyer. My name is Manny Manfreda and your mom has asked me to represent you."

At the mention of his mother, Travis's shoulders slumped even more and he looked down at the floor.

"You need to answer my questions truthfully, or I won't be any help to you at all," Manny said. "Do you understand?"

Travis nodded, but he still wouldn't make eye contact.

The first thing Manny wanted to know was how much damage her new client had done to himself. "Have you been talking to the police and the FBI since you were brought in? Did they advise you of your rights?"

Travis nodded. "A police car came around the corner right after the explosion. They must've been patrolling right around there. The cops stopped us and said they just wanted to get some information from us down at the station. We went because we didn't want them calling our parents. We weren't even supposed to be out that night."

"So they didn't arrest you at the scene, but you agreed to go with them to the police station." Manny leaned forward. "This is important, Travis. Did they threaten you?"

The boy shrugged. "No, but they're cops, ya know. You do what they tell you to do. Besides, I didn't do anything wrong, so I figured I didn't have anything to worry about."

Manny tried not to think about how many wrongfully convicted people had spoken those words before being hauled off for long prison terms. Before she could ask her next question, Travis asked her one.

"When the cops were driving away with us, I saw an ambulance pull up. Did someone get hurt when the mailbox exploded? Later, the cops kept asking me about some man with a dog."

Manny studied her client. For the first time since they had started talking, he met her eye. Was he being sincere? Was he really not aware that the explosion had nearly killed a federal judge? The subtle cues you got when you spoke to a client face-to-face were hard to read when his face was obscured by scratched Plexiglas, his voice distorted by a primitive sound system.

"The man walking the dog was Judge Patrick Brueninger. He was seriously injured by a flying piece of metal."

Manny watched as Travis absorbed this news. His face didn't register any of the emotions she would have expected: shock and fear if he were innocent, or if he really had intended to kill the judge, elation at having hit his target, disappointment at not having killed him. Instead, Travis seemed just mildly concerned.

"What about the dog?" he asked.

"Huh?"

"The dog-did it get hurt in the explosion?"

"Uh, not that I'm aware." Manny looked down and made some notes on her pad to give herself a moment to think. Her new client seemed utterly unfazed by being involved in an incident that had nearly killed a judge, but he was worried about the victim's dog. She had no experience representing juveniles-would a jury believe he was screwy or that he merely had his priorities straight?

She resumed the interview. "Do you know who Patrick Brueninger is?"

Travis shrugged. "No. Why would I?"

The truth or a lie? Manny couldn't be sure. That bored teenage demeanor was so hard to read. For a newshound like her, Brueninger's name was instantly recognizable. But teenagers, even smart ones, were famously self-absorbed. Maybe Travis really didn't have a clue about the prominence of the man who'd been injured by this stunt. She moved on. "How many kids in your group?"

"It was just Paco and me from Monet. We met these four other guys at the club. They were a little older. They bought us some beers." Travis's voice got softer and Manny had to strain to hear. "After the music was over, we all went to the deli for some food. We passed the mailbox, and one of the guys bent down, like he'd dropped something. The next thing you know, everyone was running, so Paco and I ran, too. And then the mailbox exploded, the cops came, and here I am."

"And you never saw these guys before you met them at the club?"

Travis shook his head.

"What were their names?"

Travis shrugged. "One was named Jack, and there was one they all called Boo. And Gordie and Zeke, or Deke or Freak or something. It was so loud in there, I couldn't hear what they were saying."

"And they came down to the police station, too?"

"Paco and I got into one police car." Travis twisted the edge of his cuff as he spoke. "The other guys were standing out on the sidewalk, talking to the cops. We couldn't hear what they were saying, except they kept shaking their heads. And finally they all showed the cops their driver's licenses and the cops wrote stuff down, and then they let them go."

Manny rubbed her temples. Clearly, "Freak" and "Boo" knew a bit more about dealing with law enforcement than this little rabbit. The older guys had simply declined to make the trip to the station, and the cops, not having enough to arrest them, had let them go after checking their IDs. God only knew if the IDs were real.

"And what about Paco?"

"They put us in separate rooms when we got here, and I haven't seen him since."

"How much did you tell the cops once you got here?"

"Just what I told you. That Paco and I were supposed to be sleeping over at his house but came over to Hoboken to check out this club and met those guys. One of the guys dropped something by the mailbox; then we all ran. That's it."

"Which guy dropped something?"

"The guy whose name I didn't catch. Zeke… whatever."

Travis sounded impatient. Manny guessed he was tired of telling his story. Well, too damn bad. He'd tell it until she understood every detail. No wonder the cops were holding on to him. This was the oldest cover-up in the book-a version of the old "The drugs aren't mine; I was holding them for a friend" routine.