Andrew Vachss - Flood

I put the car away, making a mental note to do some cosmetic surgery on it before this case with Flood made it too visible. Went upstairs, deactivated everything, and let myself in. Pansy gave me a halfhearted growl just to let me know she was on the job, then charged over, wagging her stump of a tail. Even without the security systems I knew there hadn’t been any visitors. Pansy was cut from the same cloth as my old Doberman, Devil, and nobody would get in here without war breaking loose.

That had happened once, and it gave Blumberg his big chance to act like a real lawyer. I was hiding a certain gentleman in my old apartment. He told me people were looking for him, but said nothing about those people wearing blue coats and badges instead of business suits. Anyway, while I was out trying to square some other beef, the cops arrived and decided to serve a Smith and Wesson warrant on my premises. They smashed in the door, and Devil met them head on. My client had more than enough time to leave by the back window, and Devil nailed two of the cops before they got smart and retreated until the ASPCA arrived. Those clowns blasted my dog with a load of tranquilizers and carted her off to the pound. By the time I found out what went down, she was already behind bars waiting for adoption or execution, whichever came first. Just like a lot of kids in orphanages.

The ASPCA wouldn’t return her to me at first, saying the Major Case Squad wanted her held for evidence. The jerks-I knew she’d never talk. Anyway, by the time I proved the Doberman was really my dog, they told me she was being held for adoption. I figured they might have been sincere about that, since she was too fine an animal to just stuff into the gas chamber, but I wasn’t ready to give her up that easily. So I went to see Blumberg.

Fortunately, it was already late afternoon by then and night court would soon be in session. I explained the matter to Blumberg and he opened with his usual sensitive probing, “Burke, you got the money, kid?”

“How much, Blumberg?”

“Well, this is a major case, my boy. I know of no legal precedent which covers the issue. We’ll have to make law, take this all the way to the appellate courts, maybe even to the southern district. You and your fine dog have constitutional rights, and there are no rights without remedies. And, as you know, remedies are not cheap.”

“Blumberg, I’ve got a flat yard, period. Not a nickel more. And I want a guarantee I get my dog back.”

“Are you crazy? No guarantees-that’s a rule of the profession. Why, I could be disbarred for even mentioning such a thing.”

“You mean you’re not?”

“That’s not funny, Burke. That matter was dismissed. All the baseless allegations of misconduct on my part have been expunged from the record.”

“What about the allegations that weren’t baseless?”

“Burke, if you’re going to have a negative attitude about this, we simply cannot do business.”

“Sam, come on, I’m serious. I know you’re the best in the business when you want to be. This isn’t some skell who’s going to Riker’s Island for a year. My dog didn’t do anything-and those bastards at the ASPCA are liable to gas her if I don’t get her out.”

“Oh, a death penalty case, is it? Well, normally I charge seven and a half for capital cases, but seeing as it’s you, I’ll take the case for the five hundred you offered. You got it on you?”

“Sam, I said a yard, not five. I’ll make it a deuce-that’s the best I can do. Half in front, half when it’s over.”

“Are you completely insane, my boy? Be reasonable. Where would I be if I allowed my clients to withhold half of the fee until they were satisfied?”

“You’d be working on fifty per cent of your usual gross.”

“I’m going to ignore that comment in view of the fact that you are obviously grief-stricken over the potential loss of your beloved pet. And, my boy, it just so happens you’re in luck. Justice Seymour is sitting in criminal court tonight because of the crowded calendar. Since he’s a judge of the supreme court, we won’t have to wait until morning to bring on your Application for Relief.”

And it went just like Blumberg said. He was too slick to try and put the case on the calendar since night court is only for arraignments, so he waited until he was in front of the judge on a shoplifting case. Before the poor defendant even knew who his lawyer was, Blumberg, the D.A., and the judge had swiftly converted the case to Disorderly Conduct. The defendant was hit with a $50 fine and a conditional discharge and was led over to the clerk’s bench while still trying to thank Blumberg for saving him from the ten years in prison the fat man had assured him was a distinct possibility. Then Blumberg pulled his vest down over a bulging stomach, cleared his throat with such authority that the entire court quieted down, and addressed the judge in a resonant baritone:

“Your Honor, at this time, I have an extraordinary application to make on behalf of my client, who is, at this very moment, incarcerated and awaiting execution.”

The judge looked staggered. His cronies over at the supreme court had told him anything could happen at night arraignments, but nothing he had heard prepared him for this. He looked up sharply at Blumberg, and in a voice designed to display a mixture of pure contempt laced with intimidation, said, “Counselor, surely you realize that this court is not the appropriate forum to bring such a matter.”

Blumberg was not deterred. “Your Honor, if the court please. Your Honor is a supreme court justice and, might I add, a most eminent legal scholar. Indeed, I know from personal knowledge that Your Honor’s landmark legal opinions have been required reading for students of the law for many years. As a sitting supreme court justice, Your Honor has jurisdiction over properly presented extraordinary writs, and Your Honor should be aware that this matter is one of the most dire urgency, threatening, as it surely does, the very life of my client.”

The judge attempted to intercede, saying, “Counselor, if you please,” but he might as well have been trying to keep a hungry rat away from cheese. Blumberg brushed aside the judge’s feeble attempts to halt the lava-flow of his rhetoric, simultaneously firing his masterstroke.

“Your Honor, if the court please. A life is a sacred thing-it is not to be trampled upon or trifled with. The public’s faith in the criminal justice system must be ever vigilantly protected, and who is better cast in the role of protector than a justice of our supreme court? Your Honor, my client faces death -a vicious and ignominious death at the hands of agents of the State. My client has done no wrong, and yet my client may die this very night if Your Honor does not hear my plea. The members of the press”-here Blumberg indicated by a sweep of his hand the single Daily News stringer as if the poor kid were an entire gallery of eager scribes-“questioned me about this matter before I entered this august courtroom, and even such hardened men as they wondered how such a thing as summary execution without trial could actually take place in these United States. Your Honor, this is America, not Iran!” At this, the ragged collection of lames, losers, and lumpen proletariat began to stir, their mumbled snarling energizing Blumberg like a blood transfusion. “Even the lowliest cur is entitled to due process-even the poorest among us is entitled to his day in court. If Your Honor will only permit me to expound upon the facts in this case, I am certain Your Honor will see fit-”

“Counselor. Counselor, please. I have yet to understand what you are talking about and, as you well know, our docket is quite crowded this evening. But in the interests of justice, and upon your representation that you will be brief, I will hear your application.”