David Rosenfelt - First degree

"And this client is … ?"

"Oscar Garcia."

He looks up sharply. "Oscar Garcia?"

"The very one." I can see Billy's mind working. Oscar is someone no lawyer in his right mind would want as a client, yet here I am applying for the job. Billy knows I can get as many clients as I want. So if I want Garcia, he's thinking, then he should want him as well, but he has no idea why.

"And you think he's innocent?" he asks. "How did you come up with that theory?"

"Somebody told me there's no way he could have done it," I say. "That he never could have gone up against Dorsey."

Billy laughs a short, put-down laugh. "That's it? That's your evidence? Who told you that?"

"Laurie Collins."

Billy stops laughing. He knows Laurie very well and is fully aware that her opinions about matters like this are to be taken very seriously. But he has to stand his ground. "I don't think the 'Laurie defense' will hold up in court."

"I'll try and come up with something else just in case," I say.

I can see that he is weakening, so I up the pressure a little. "Come on, Billy, you know every lawyer you have is hiding in the closet when you walk by so you can't dump this on them. And I won't use your resources. Everything comes out of my office."

He can't think of a reason to say no, so he doesn't. "And you'll keep me informed?"

"Every step of the way," I say.

"Andy, you know how many of these cases I've seen? Don't count on this being another Willie Miller."

"I won't," I say. "It's Oscar Garcia all the way."

He reaches down and picks up a file off his desk. He hands it to me. "Here's all we know so far. Read it and then go see your client."

I take the file back to my office and read what Billy found in the police reports. They had received an anonymous tip phoned in to 911 by a woman claiming that Garcia was involved. They were then able to match his fingerprints to those found on the door to the warehouse where Dorsey's body was found. Witnesses also claimed to have seen Garcia near that warehouse on a number of occasions, including the morning of the murder.

I'm sure the case is stronger than this, and I'll have to direct my efforts toward finding out what more they have. The 911 call is intriguing, since the information given was wrong. It could simply be a mistake, but it more likely seems to be an indication that someone, most likely Stynes, is trying to frame Garcia.

I'm about to go visit with my potential client when Laurie comes in. She is obviously upset, and it takes about a fraction of a second for me to find out why.

"Is it true you're taking on Oscar Garcia as a client?" It's a question, dressed up like a demand.

"I haven't met with him yet," I reply rather lamely.

"So you are meeting with him? You want to take his case?"

I nod. "I'm on the way over there now."

"Incredulous" doesn't quite go far enough to describe her reaction. "Let me see if I understand this," she says. "You were turning down every client in town for six months so you could hold out for Oscar Garcia?"

"Laurie, I'm late. Can we talk about this if and when he hires me? He might want a different lawyer." The fact is, I'm hoping he turns me down. My conscience will be clear.

She laughs derisively. "Yeah, he's a real prize. There'll be a roomful of lawyers trying to win him over. Andy, how the hell could you do this to me?"

"I'm not doing anything to you, Laurie."

"You know how I feel about him, you know what he's done to my friend, yet of all the people you could represent you pick him."

"Laurie, I know how this might seem. But believe me, it's not about you. It has nothing whatsoever to do with you."

It's clear that she isn't close to being convinced. "Then why are you doing this? Just tell me why."

"There are reasons that I can't go into, I truly can't go into."

"Yeah, right."

I try a different approach, because this one obviously isn't working at all. "Okay, you tell me why I would be taking on a client to get back at you. I love you, I care about you, but I would do this to punish you? To hurt you? Does that make sense? Did we have a fight I forgot about?"

She takes a moment to weigh my argument, and I think I have a chance until I can see the reject button go off in her brain.

"Don't do it, Andy." It's a combination plea and command.

"I'm sorry, but I have to."

She shakes her head. "No, you want to."

She turns and leaves. I feel bad that she is hurt, but I feel much worse that she believes I would intentionally hurt her.

BEING PUT IN COUNTY JAIL IS LIKE SIGNING A FIRST baseball contract and reporting to the low minor league team they assign you to. You're in professional baseball, and while you know you might someday find yourself in the big leagues, for right now this seems pretty significant. Of course, if someday you do make it to the majors, you realize just how small the minors were.

County jail is the flip side of that. When you're sent there, you know you might find yourself in state prison if you get convicted, but for right now this seems pretty awful. Of course, if you do wind up there, or in a federal prison, you realize just how easy you had it back in County.

The thing is, when you're in County, at least things are happening. You're getting the lay of the land, seeing your lawyer, preparing for trial … it's a new experience. When you're convicted and sent to State, it feels like the system has forgotten about you, and in fact it has. Your life is not only miserable, it's also boring, and there is no end in sight.

I guess my point is that, all in all, county jail is a pretty super-duper place to live. But for some reason, Oscar Garcia doesn't see it that way. Oscar thinks it's an outrage--a "motherfucking joke" is the homespun way he puts it--that he should be in this position.

He rants and raves for two or three minutes, then finally realizes that, since I am sitting there, I just might have a role to play in all this. "Who the hell are you?" he asks.

"My name is Andy Carpenter. I'm an attorney working for the public defender's office on your case."

He stares at me for a few moments, as if trying to remember something. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

I shrug. "Maybe. I went to NYU. What fraternity were you in?"

Oscar's sense of irony doesn't seem that well developed, and I've got a hunch he's not going to be a master of self-deprecating humor either. He ignores my comment, mainly because he's just remembered where he's seen me.

"You're that lawyer, right?" He points at me, no doubt to make sure I know he's not talking to the table.

"That's what I just finished telling you."

He shakes his head. "No, I mean the guy that was on TV."

I nod. "That's me. The TV lawyer."

He sort of squints at me, checking me out. "What do you want with me?"

He's suspicious, the first sign of intelligence I've seen. I decide to tell the partial truth, which seems to be the most I can manage these days. "I thought you might need my help."

"I don't need nobody's help."

"Then I'll find someone who does." I stand up to leave. "See ya around the campus."

I reach the door and I'm halfway out when I hear, "Wait a minute, man." I can pretend I don't hear it and keep walking, or I can turn around and continue with this self-destructive insanity. I turn.

"What is it, Oscar?"

"I didn't do it, man. I've done some pretty bad shit, but this ain't me."

"Did you know Dorsey?" I ask.

"A little bit, no big deal. He hassled me a few times. Nothing I couldn't handle."

"How did you handle it?" I ask.

"I just let it slide, went about my business."

"And just what is your business?" I ask.

"What the hell is the difference? This ain't about my business. My business is my business."