Stuart Woods - Fresh Disasters

“At ten minutes past ten this morning, Herbie walked into the La Boheme coffeehouse and shot Dattila the Hun twice in the head, and actually got out of the place alive, because half an hour before, the police had gone in there and arrested everybody who had a gun. We still had a whole bunch of people hanging around the block in plain clothes, and they managed to disarm and handcuff Herbie before he could hurt himself.”

“Where is he now?”

“In the lockup downstairs. Frankly, we’re a little undecided as to what to do with him: charge him with first-degree murder or give him a medal for his service to the community. Could you get your ass down here as quickly as possible, please?”

“I’ll be there in an hour,” Stone said. He hung up.

“I couldn’t hear that one,” Eliza said. “I guess nobody was shouting.”

“It’s just as well; you wouldn’t have believed it. I certainly don’t.”

An hour and ten minutes later Stone presented himself at the district attorney’s office and was ushered into a conference room where Dierdre Monahan and the chief deputy D.A. were already seated. Simultaneously, Herbie was brought in through another door, wearing shackles, his hands cuffed to a chain around his waist.

“Hey, Stone,” he said. “I…”

“Shut up, Herbie, and don’t say another word, or I’ll borrow a gun and shoot you.”

“I’ll loan you a gun,” Dierdre said.

Stone sat down opposite her and her boss, while Herbie was pressed into a chair at the end of the table. A uniformed policeman stood behind him, glowering.

Dierdre shoved a sheet of paper across the table. “That’s your client’s signature at the bottom of a waiver of his right to an attorney,” she said. She held up a cassette. “And this is the videotape of his full confession to the murder of Carmine Dattila.”

“Well, I don’t know why I had to come all the way downtown,” Stone said. “Why don’t you just electrocute him and get it over with?”

“Hey!” Herbie said.

“Shut up, Herbie, or I’ll have your mouth duct-taped.”

Herbie muttered something about free speech.

“Do you have any duct tape?” Stone asked Dierdre.

“I’ll send out for some,” she replied. “Stone, as I mentioned on the phone, we’re in a bit of a quandary here. We’d like your views on how to handle this.”

Stone looked back and forth between the two prosecutors. He had time to reflect that no D.A. had ever asked his advice about prosecuting a client of his. Then he got the picture. “Oh,” he said. “Right. My client, Mr. Fisher, has been hounded and abused by Carmine Dattila and his employees for weeks. They have beaten him, kidnapped him and his murder has been ordered by Mr. Dattila, a tape of which statement is in your possession. Additionally, after the only other witness against Mr. Dattila was murdered in jail, Dattila sent a hired assassin to the hotel where Mr. Fisher was being held in protective custody, where he murdered the two police officers guarding him and would have murdered Mr. Fisher, had he not had the presence of mind to escape the hotel suite before the assassin found him.

“These events convinced Mr. Fisher that the District Attorney and the police could not ever protect him, so, while the balance of his mind…may have been disturbed by these events, he found himself in the presence of Mr. Dattila and did the only thing he could do to protect himself in the circumstances and entirely in self-defense.” Stone stopped and took a breath. “That’s what I’d say to a jury, and I’d get an acquittal.”

Dierdre nodded. She looked at her boss questioningly, and he nodded. “All right,” she said. “You understand we can’t have people walking around the city armed and shooting people. How about he pleads to one count of illegal possession of a weapon and gets a year, suspended?”

“Done,” Stone said.

“A year?” Herbie asked, sounding horrified.

“Suspended, Herbie. Shut up.”

“There’s a judge waiting for us in his chambers,” Dierdre said, getting to her feet.

Half an hour later, Stone and Herbie stood on the steps of the courthouse in the sunshine. Herbie was examining the contents of an envelope that had been handed to him on the way out of the judge’s chambers.

“Do you have any money, Herbie?” Stone asked.

“Yeah, all my stuff is in here, except the cop’s gun. I guess they kept that.”

“Well, yes, they would have,” Stone said. “Do I have to explain to you that there are friends and employees of Carmine Dattila out there who would still like to squash you like a bug, even though the contract on your head may have expired with Dattila? And that you should go back to your aunt’s in East Hampton or any other place you like and lie very low for as long as possible, and that you should never again go near a bookie or a loan shark or Little Italy? Did I explain that to you?”

“I think you just did,” Herbie said.

“Then get your ass into a cab,” Stone said, clapping Herbie on the back. “And don’t ever, ever call me again.”

“Wait a minute,” Herbie said. “What about my civil action against Dattila? We could go for his estate.”

“Estate? You think Dattila had an estate? Like on paper? If he did, the IRS would get there first, believe me, and you’d find yourself in small claims court.”

“Oh,” Herbie replied.

“Get lost, Herbie.” Stone ran down the steps, waving at a taxi, and he did not look back.

Stone got out of the cab and ran up the stairs into the house, avoiding the office door. Eliza was upstairs, still in bed, waiting.

Before he could get into the elevator, he heard Joan’s voice calling to him over the phone’s intercom.

“Stone,” she said, “there’s a client here to see you. I think you’re going to want to take this meeting.”

“I’ll be back as soon as humanly possible,” he said to Eliza.

“Sooner than that,” she said.

Stone sighed and started down the stairs. If Herbie had beat him here, well, there was a gun in his office safe. He walked into his office and found Bernice Finger sitting on his leather sofa.

“Why, Mrs. Finger,” he said, extending his hand. “How nice to see you.” It really was very nice to see her; she had obviously come to her senses. He sat down next to her. “How can I help you?”

“Well,” she began, then stopped. “First, I have something to give you,” she said, opening her handbag.

Stone watched her, baffled, as she came up with a gold-plated.38 Detective Special with a snub-nosed barrel.

“Could you do something with this, please?” she asked, pointing it at him, as if to shoot.

Stone grabbed the weapon. “Bernice,” he said, “please don’t tell me you…” He flipped open the cylinder of the gun and found it fully loaded. Two of the cartridges had been fired. “Oh, no,” he said, half to himself.

“I shot them both,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Oh, no,” he said, this time aloud.

“But I missed,” she said. “I scared the shit out of them, though.” She smiled.

Stone let go the breath he had been holding. “I expect you did,” he said. “Did Bernie call the police?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “That was a couple of hours ago, and nobody’s tried to arrest me.”

Stone nodded. “And what are your intentions now?”

“I believe I’m ready to proceed with the divorce.”

“Really? No backing out this time?”

“I give you my word.”

Stone looked at his watch. “Just a moment.” He rose, went to his desk and picked up the phone. “Get me Sam Teich at Bernie Finger’s office,” he said to Joan. A long moment passed, then Joan came back. “He’s on line one,” she said.