William Bernhardt - Hate Crime

Lacayo peered across the room at her. “You have not received a copy?”

“Excuse me,” Drabble said, “but isn’t that your copy on your table, Ms. McCall? In the manila envelope.” He turned back to the judge. “I handed it to her myself.”

Christina ripped open the top envelope he had given her a few minutes before-that she had volunteered to carry for him. Sure enough-a motion to bifurcate.

The man had suckered her. Not once. But twice.

“So when you told the court that you did not have the brief, Ms. McCall,” the judge said, obviously angry, “that was something less than the truth?”

“I-I guess-I had it. I just didn’t-”

“Ms. McCall,” Judge Lacayo said, “this court feels just as strongly about truthfulness as it does about punctuality.”

“Of course, but-”

“Perhaps the least appealing quality of the unprepared lawyer is the tendency to make excuses for her failures.”

“But your honor-”

“The motion to bifurcate will be granted. This hearing is adjourned. Have a nice weekend, and I will see you all again Monday morning when we begin this trial.” He glared at Christina. “And I will expect rather better preparation and performance than I have seen in this courtroom today.” He slammed the gavel.

As soon as Lacayo was out of the courtroom, the noise level in the courtroom became deafening, at least to Christina. She just hoped to God that Drabble didn’t come over to extend his sympathies. That would be too much. She might have to slug the man. The reporters would be waiting for her outside, but she knew if she sweet-talked the judge’s clerk, he might let her exit via chambers.

So this was what it had come to-sneaking away from the courtroom, head hung in shame. What the hell had she thought she was doing when she took this case? She might sneak away from the reporters, but she knew she would still have to face Ellen, if not here, then back at Kevin’s office. What would she say?

She needed help. She didn’t like to admit it, but it was true. She was in over her head. As she packed away her materials, she noticed an e-mail she had printed out this morning. INTERNS SEEKING PART-TIME POSITIONS.

If Ben refused to help her, he couldn’t complain if she found someone else who would, right?

By the time she’d made it back to the street, Christina was already on her cell phone setting up interviews. As far as she was concerned, she had no choice. After a performance like today’s, she had to do something. Anything. Because when this trial started, it would be about a good deal more than her professional reputation. It would be about whether a young man who insisted he hadn’t committed a murder would be sentenced to death-because his attorney blew it.

Charlie the Chicken sat opposite the desk and stared at the man in the gray, off-the-rack J.C. Penney’s suit. He was the natty sort-everything in its place. You could see it on his desk; you could see it in his clothes. A hanky tucked in his jacket pocket. Even wore a tie tack, for God’s sake.

“Tell me about yourself,” the man said, folding his hands into each other.

“Sure.” It was a tiny office with plywood walls; the man shared space with a bail bondsman. “I grew up on the South Side. Dropped out of high school, moved downtown. Adventures in the big city-you know how it goes. Had some idea I was going to get involved with a theater company, but so far that hasn’t happened. I had to take a trip out of town recently, and… unfortunately, that caused a break with my previous employer. Now I’m back and looking for something to do.”

“Are you still interested in theater work?”

“Yeah. But at the moment, I need to earn some bread. But that’s okay. I mean-it’s all performing, isn’t it? When you get right down to it. Playing a role. Assuming a character. Trying to please the audience.”

Charlie had to fight to keep from laughing. Even a grin would probably be a mistake at this juncture. Who knew how much of a sense of humor this guy had, given what he did for a living? He came off as such a starched shirt. Charlie had expected a significantly higher sleaze factor-silk shirt, or perhaps Hawaiian, open at the collar, collar flared. Fat, feet on the desk, leaning back in the chair. Like a porn film producer, maybe. Instead, he got the man in the gray flannel suit.

“As you might imagine,” the man continued, “our hours are at times somewhat irregular and unpredictable. Would that be a problem?”

“Not at all.”

“Afternoons are common. And sometimes late nights. Very late.”

Charlie spread wide his hands. “Hey, I’m at your disposal.”

“Splendid. Do you have a cell phone?”

“No. Unfortunately, I’ve had to scale back a bit of late. Cut out the nonessentials.”

“I understand entirely.”

The most remarkable part, all things considered, was how utterly respectable this office seemed. From all outward appearances, he might as well be interviewing for a job as church secretary, perhaps the mayor’s aide. But this sort of thing had to be low-key, he supposed. Couldn’t attract attention. A big neon sign reading PIMP would probably be a mistake.

“Do you have any hobbies? Other than your theater work?”

“Well, I haven’t had too much time for it lately, but, yeah, I love to read. Haunt the libraries, you know. Learned most of my best tricks and techniques there, courtesy of the Cook County taxpayers. And I make boxes.”

“Boxes?”

“Hard to explain. I got the idea last time I was in Santa Fe. It’s kind of like painting, except on a three-dimensional surface. Sometimes I follow a theme, sometimes I go more abstract. I got one in a gallery on Michigan once. Never sold, though.”

The man smiled pleasantly. “My late wife was fond of miniatures. Little dollhouses, I called them.”

Charlie tried to suppress his urge to barf. “Well, that’s… somewhat similar, yeah.”

“Where are you living?”

“I’m kind of between places at the moment. I’d been rooming with a guy for years but… well, you know how these things shake out sometimes. It didn’t work anymore. Then I left town and, since I’ve been back, I’ve been squatting in a real dive. One of those rent-by-the-week joints. I think some of my neighbors may be renting in five-minute increments.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yeah. So you can see why I’m interested in making some cash. I got things to take care of.”

“But of course you do.” He scanned a form that lay on the desk before him. “Just a few more things we need to cover…”

None of this get-to-know-you BS fooled Charlie for a moment. The man cared about only two things: how much are you willing to do, and how big is it? And if Charlie wanted work, it’d better be big.

“Are you active in sports?”

“Oh yeah. You may not be able to tell-I’ve always been on the skinny side-but I love to get outdoors and work up a sweat. I play racquetball several times a week.” Which was total bull, but it was the most big-dickish answer he could come up with off the top of his head. “We were in the state finals last year.”

“Impressive. Could we talk a moment about your professional qualifications?”

Here we go. “Of course.”

“You say you’ve done this sort of thing before.”

“Oh yeah.”

“So you wouldn’t be uncomfortable with the general parameters of escort work.”

“Not a bit.”

“Then let me ask. Are there any activities you wouldn’t be willing to engage in?”

Charlie hesitated. “I’m not sure. Perhaps if you could give me some idea…”

“For instance, many of our clients are older women. Considerably older than yourself. Would that be a problem?”