Phillip Margolin - Heartstone

The jailer put them in a small room with a table and two bridge chairs and locked the metal door behind him. Mark opened his attaché case and took out the case file.

“Mr. Rasmussen, my name is Mark Shaeffer and I have been appointed to represent you.”

Rasmussen’s hand was damp when they shook. He grinned sheepishly and ran his hand through his hair.

“I guess they got me good. I thought for sure that I could make it home. That damn cop got me a block from my house.”

“Before you discuss the facts of the case with me, I should tell you the legal definition of “Driving Under the Influence of Intoxicating Liquor.” You may think that you have violated the law, but…”

“Think? Hell,” he laughed, “I was shitfaced. Look, I appreciate your help. I really do. But I did it and I just want to get this over with and get home to my wife. She doesn’t even know where I am.”

“All right,” Mark said reluctantly, “but why don’t you tell me a little about yourself. Drunk driving is a serious charge. Maybe I can work a deal with the D.A. and get you a light sentence or a plea to a reduced charge. Now how old are you?”

“I’m twenty-four.”

“Any kids?”

“One. A boy. Four.”

“Employed?”

“I’m going to college. This is my second semester. I got out of the army about six months ago.”

Court was in recess and Albert Caproni was talking to Judge Mercante’s secretary, a sexy blond who was laughing at something the young D.A. had just said. Mark waited until Caproni had finished. Then he cleared his throat.

“Excuse me. I’m Mark Shaeffer. I wonder if I could talk to you about the Rasmussen case?”

“Sure. I’m Al Caproni. What’s the charge?” He asked as he rifled through his files.

“He has a drunk driving charge. I was curious about what kind of deal we could work out if, uh, well, if he pleads now.”

Caproni found the file and took out the police report and a printout of Rasmussen’s criminal record.

“His rap sheet shows that he’s clean except for a speeding ticket a few years ago. Let’s see. The report says that he failed to signal when he made a right turn. Officer followed. Weaving. Pulled him over.”

Caproni skipped around, mumbling now and then.

“He was polite. No accident. Listen, he sounds okay. What does he do?”

“He’s a college student. Just out of the army.”

“Tell ya what. I’ll let him plead to “Reckless Driving.” Mercante will be easy on him and he’ll probably just get a fine.”

“Your Honor, I have talked with Mr. Caproni. He has agreed to substitute a charge of “Reckless Driving” for the drunk driving charge against Mr. Rasmussen. I have talked with my client and he has agreed to plead to the reduced charge.”

“Is that your wish, Mr. Rasmussen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that agreeable to the District Attorney’s Office, Mr. Caproni?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Rasmussen, are you aware that I could sentence you to six months in jail or fine you $500 or both if you plead guilty to this charge?”

“My lawyer explained that.”

“And you still wish to enter a plea of guilty?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Your plea will be accepted. Mr. Caproni, what are the facts of this case?”

Caproni handed the judge the police report. When he had finished reading it, he asked Mark if there was anything he wished to say on behalf of his client.

“Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Rasmussen is a college student. He just got out of the army and is married and has a child. This is his first scrape with the law except for a speeding ticket in 1962. I think probation would be appropriate here. If the court is considering a fine, I hope you will take into account the fact that I am court-appointed and Mr. Rasmussen and his family are living off what his wife makes as a secretary.”

“Thank you, counsel. Do you have anything to suggest with regard to sentencing, Mr. Caproni?”

“Your Honor, I agree with Mr. Shaeffer. Probation sounds appropriate in this case.”

“Thank you. You know, Mr. Rasmussen, you are going to get off easy this time, because your record is excellent. Your insurance would have gone sky high and you would have lost your license for a month if you had been convicted of “Driving Under the Influence.” Your lawyer did an excellent job getting this charge reduced. Next time you may not be lucky enough to have Mr. Shaeffer representing you.

“Even more important. Next time you might kill somebody. Think about that the next time you have too much to drink and decide to drive.

“I am going to sentence you to thirty days in jail and give you credit for time served. I am going to suspend the imposition of that sentence and put you on probation for one year. If you are arrested for drunk driving again, you will have to serve your time. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There will be no fine.”

Shaeffer thanked the judge and walked Rasmussen back to jail.

“I want to thank you,” Rasmussen said.

“I’m glad I could help.”

“I mean it. I would have just pleaded to the other charge and lost my license. I didn’t realize that I could get a reduced charge.”

Mark smiled.

“That’s why they appoint a lawyer for you.”

“Say, do you have a business card? If I ever get in trouble again, you’re the guy I’ll call.”

Mark laughed and gave him several of his cards. They talked for a few minutes and Mark returned to his office.

Eddie Toller stood outside his office door and looked over the early customers who were starting to fill up the dark red interior of the Satin Slipper Lounge. Eddie was thirty-nine years old and five feet nine-and-a-half inches tall. He was skinny and, at one hundred and forty pounds, he was considerably under what he had once read was the proper weight for someone his size. Eddie stayed thin by not eating. He just did not have an appetite and, besides, he had an allergy to dairy products.

The early crowd was mostly businessmen stopping for a quick one before heading home to the suburbs. The people who came later in the evening were a different type. More working people and singles. Eddie smiled. He had a nice smile that went well with his features, which were often described as “kindly.” The first time Joyce saw his sad eyes and the droopy salt and pepper mustache that he had cultivated in prison she thought immediately of Shep, a terrier that had lived its life with her family. In his later years, the dog lost his spark and loafed around the house all day, relaxed and content. Eddie looked like someone who had passed by youth and its illusions. He was tired and not inclined to race.

Eddie wandered over to the bar and said hello to the bartender, Sammy White. Sammy was an ex-boxer who had worked for Carl for years. He was friendly and he had given Eddie a few worthwhile tips when Eddie started as assistant manager a few weeks before.

Eddie looked at his watch and glanced toward the door. Joyce should be arriving any minute. He couldn’t wait to see her. During the last few years he had been in and out of jail a lot. Never anything real serious. Mostly burglaries and one auto theft. Anyhow, he had spent a lot of time in the joint and the one thing he never got used to was that there weren’t any women.

Eddie was a guy who needed women. Wait, that was not right. Eddie was no ladies man or womanizer. What Eddie needed was one woman. Someone to take care of him and tell him what to do. Not that he admitted this to himself, but it was a fact, borne out by thirty-nine years of history, that Eddie could not take care of himself.

When Eddie was young, his mother had looked after him so much that he never learned how to do it himself. Then the army had looked after him. It was after the army that Eddie started trying to think for himself. That, by coincidence, was when he started getting in trouble.