William Lashner - Past Due

I climbed out of bed, went to my desk drawer, took out the envelope, turned on the lamp. The photographs, the sight of her limbs, her flesh, the arch of her back, the openness of it all. Whatever my father was feeling as he watched Angel drive away, the photographer was feeling when he took these photographs and maybe I was starting to feel as I pored over them, not only now, but the night before, and the night before that, and the night…

And I had a thought just then, a wild guess that made sense only while I felt myself still in the spell of emotions cast by my father’s story, the emotions evident in the photographer’s worship of his subject, in the emotions I felt as I stared ever deeper into the black-and-white world of this strange and wondrous body and felt something missing from my life. If it was the emotions stirred by that woman in the pleated skirt that ruined my father, maybe it was the emotions evident in these pictures that led this boy, this Tommy, to his murderous rendezvous with Joey Parma on the waterfront.

I didn’t know how to prove, one way or another, this wild speculation. I was waiting still on McDeiss with the information I had requested, whether or not it would lead to anything concrete. The number Mrs. Parma had given me was not listed in the reverse directories on the Internet and my calls were not being returned, no matter how often I left a message. The story of Joey Parma’s last night, told me by Lloyd Ganz, had only confused me further. I was at a loss, stumped.

And then fate did its dance with me, its lively little two-step, and a lovely woman with tawny skin and bright high heels stepped into my life and set me on a truly twisted trail to the truth.

SHE WAS DRESSEDfor the part of the woman trailing trouble, a tight, bright dress, hair done just so, lips painted dark, a mad glint in her eye. I noticed her in the back of the courtroom noticing me. I noticed her noticing me and I liked it.

We are popinjays, all of us, we trial lawyers, puffing out our chests and playing to the crowd, even when the courtroom is empty of all but a strange woman in the back row. I glanced her way, caught her smile in my heart, and turned back to the cop on the stand and the business at hand, a motion to suppress.

Rashard Porter was a good kid, talented and sweet-natured, none of which precluded him from driving around in a stolen car with a joint the size of a megaphone on the front seat. The car was lent to him by his cousin, he explained to me. He didn’t know it was stolen, he explained to me. And the spliff was something he bought to impress this girl he had a thing for, he explained to me. His explanations might have been true, but they didn’t mitigate that he was driving around in a stolen car with a joint the size of a megaphone on the front seat. He had been stopped, the joint had been spied, the car had come up on the computer as stolen, and Rashard was neck-deep in the outhouse.

But that’s what I do. I’m a lawyer. I shovel crap.

“Now your testimony, Officer Blackwood,” I said to the cop on the stand, “was that you were parked on Parkside when you saw the defendant drive by.”

“That’s right.”

“And he was driving the Lexus, right? Silver. Sharp.”

“He was driving something.”

“Did you recognize it as a Lexus when he drove by?”

“I suppose.”

“How far from Wynnefield Avenue were you parked when you saw him?”

“About fifteen yards.”

“Forty-five feet back, so the passing cars couldn’t see you until it was too late.”

“That’s right.”

“Sitting there in your stakeout, looking for scofflaws.”

“That’s right.”

“And you testified you noticed my client because of his high rate of speed.”

“Yes.”

“How fast was he going exactly?”

“I don’t know, exactly.”

“Did you have the radar on him?”

“No.”

“No radar?”

“I was working on something else at the moment.”

“Wiping the powdered sugar off your uniform, no doubt. And then you saw him run the red light.”

“That’s what I testified to, yes.”

“From forty-five feet back, you saw him run the stoplight not on Parkside, but on St. George’s Hill.”

“That’s right.”

“How far away was that light?”

“About forty yards.”

“One hundred and twenty feet? And wasn’t there a tree in your way, a big old sycamore?”

“There was a tree, but I could see around it.”

“It’s a big tree, isn’t it? Thick?”

“It’s a tree.”

“A big old sycamore. And from forty-five feet back on Parkside that big old sycamore was blocking your view of the intersection. I have photographs that will show this to be the case.”

“So maybe it wasn’t exactly forty-five feet.”

“Oh, so maybe not exactly forty-five feet. But whatever it was, as he drove by your stakeout, you could see my client’s face through the window, right?”

“I suppose.”

“A young black man driving by in a fancy silver Lexus.”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

“And that’s why you chased after him, not because of the high rate of speed or because of the traffic violation, which you couldn’t possibly have seen, but because of his color and because of the make of the car?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

“Your Honor,” I said. “This question is at the heart of our motion. The officer couldn’t see the intersection but he could see the driver, a young black man driving a fancy car, and that’s why he zoomed out of his stakeout and chased my client.”

“The officer testified he could see the intersection,” said Judge Wellman, a large round man with a small head and a high tinkling voice.

“It’s a big tree, Your Honor. My investigator, Mr. Skink, who is in the courtroom and ready to testify, has all kinds of photographs showing that big old tree blocking Officer Blackwood’s line of sight. The reason he stopped my client was that my client fit a certain profile, which the Supreme Court of this state has repeatedly called an improper basis for a stop, violating my client’s Fourth and Fourteenth Amendment rights and making the seizure of the stolen car and the drugs found therein fruit of the poisonous tree.”

“I understand the argument, Mr. Carl.”

“Obviously not, Judge, if you’re sustaining the objection.”

“Let’s wait a moment,” said Judge Wellman. There was a long pause. “Do you know what I’m doing now, Counselor?”

“What’s that, Your Honor?”

“I’m counting, quietly, to myself. My doctor has told me my blood pressure is too high and my wife has been teaching me to restrain my temper by counting to ten. I am now at twenty-four and my temper is not restrained. My wife will be very disappointed.”

“She’s not the only one, Judge.”

“Here’s some advice, Mr. Carl. Be quiet, be very quiet. Don’t say another word while I am still counting. And as for you, Miss Carter, does the District Attorney really want a potential profiling issue running up to the Superior Court on appeal? Is that what the District Attorney wants to see in the papers, knowing, as you do, Mr. Carl’s penchant for free publicity?”

“The one thing, I like to say, that money can’t buy.”

“Didn’t I tell you something, Mr. Carl.”

“I’ll zip it, Judge.”

“There you go. Now, I’m going to take fifteen minutes and continue counting in my chambers. If that doesn’t work, I’m going to take a pill and go home. While I’m gone, see if you two can take care of your business. Ms. Templeton?”

The judge’s clerk, a short squat woman with weight lifter’s arms, stood and said, “Yes, Judge.”