Nothing Lost Page 5

  “I give him a lot of heavy nodding, like I’m buying in to this, and then I say, like I’m really trying to work my way through it, ‘But this didn’t happen to John Q. Student; John Q. Student, in the person of Ralph Cannon, Jr., is alleged . . .’—I did say ‘alleged,’ J.J., check the tape—‘to have caused it to happen to Ms. Brittany Barnes, who is the aggrieved party here, not Mr. Cannon, Jr., and in the meantime I did not forget the question I was supposed to forget I asked . . .’—I should’ve said ‘when you were blowing smoke up my ass,’ but I didn’t—‘and the question was, why Dr. Strong thought it was necessary to suspend Ralph Cannon, Jr., from the team on those previous occasions.’ And Leo says, ‘Dr. Strong, you don’t have to answer that,’ but he raises his hand, and he says, ‘I’m comfortable answering that, Leo, it’s been covered extensively, however unfairly, in the media.’ ”

  Any criticism of John Strong was unfair. Ipso facto. He was unassailable. He had always believed it. Rhino boosters thought it was the secret of his coaching success.

  Allie waited for J.J. to respond, and when he didn’t, she continued. “He says, ‘Yes, Miss— Vasquez, is it? Such a lovely Spanish name, Rafael Huerta, our strong safety, is of Hispanic heritage, and yes, on two occasions I did suspend Mr. Cannon from our program, in fairness to my other kids, on the first occasion for one game, as you know, on the second for two.’ And he smiles, like he’s some straight-from-the-shoulder guy.” Allie leaned forward. “J.J., what is this shit about the football program?”

  “What shit about the football program?”

  “The word. ‘Program.’ When I was at Cap City Community, we never called the criminology department the ‘criminology program.’ ”

  “Right.”

  “And the professors called us students. Not ‘my kids.’ He a fag?”

  The thought had flickered across his mind. Not that John Strong was gay. Just the idea of coaches and their “kids.” Avoid that. “Allie, get on with it.”

  “Okay, J.J. Calm down. So . . .” She paused for effect. “I said, ‘Let’s talk about those two suspensions. I want to hear Dr. Strong,’ and Strong looks at Leo, and Leo says, ‘Mr. Cannon had anger issues.’ I remind him that on one of those occasions, Jocko had hit a student water boy in the face with his helmet, breaking his nose in the process. And the flack, Larry, he says, ‘Because he didn’t have any Gatorade.’ I’m working my way around the no-Gatorade defense when Strong realizes how it must sound. ‘I’m a firm believer in counseling and anger management therapy. Mr. Cannon is not a dangerous person, he’s not an O.J. Simpson, he has a problem with anger, and he has occasional outbursts.’ I let ‘occasional outbursts’ pass, and he says, ‘So I admitted him back to the program because I felt he would benefit by the kind of structured setting that I and my coaching staff and other kids in the program could provide for him. I firmly believe in the inherent worth of young people, and giving everyone the opportunity to correct mistakes.’ Then he says, ‘I could’ve done the popular thing and dismissed Mr. Cannon from the program. But I wanted to do the right thing. I’m willing to take the heat for my kids, and I’m prepared to live with my decision.’ And I say I’m relieved to hear that. And he says, ‘You know, young lady, this alleged incident is going to do harm to a good young man.’ Now he sounds like Father Flanagan, he’s running Boys Town out there, there’s no such thing as a bad boy. Or a bad nose tackle. At least until his eligibility expires . . .”

  “Allie . . .”

  “Okay.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “So I ask him in what way Jocko could be harmed. And the flack says, ‘It could affect how high he’s taken in the NFL draft. And if he’s not a top-ten pick, that could cost him a lot of money.’ So now we’ve got Jocko as the real victim, and Strong says, really confidential, ‘I think there are special interests involved with an agenda of their own.’ I ask what special interests he has in mind, I assume he means women, but he just stands up, and he says, ‘I don’t want to get into that, I want to take the high road.’ Then real confidential. ‘I hope this has been helpful, young lady,’ he says, and I say it certainly has been educational, but that Brittany Barnes was not going to withdraw her charges. And Leo says, ‘Well, we’ll see how well she adapts to a courtroom environment.’ ”

  It was the sort of stupid thing Leo Cassady would say. He’d grown sloppy renting the legislature. “Then what?” J.J. said. As if he didn’t already know.

  “I sling my bag over my shoulder, I say thank you very much, I head for the door, and when I get there, I turn around and I say, like Columbo, ‘I just have one more question, Dr. Strong.’ ‘Fire away,’ he says. Cool. Like he’s on the sideline. Time running out. Watch the clock. Make every play count. Go for the two-point conversion. But like Leo the lawyer, I’ve done a little homework myself. And I say, ‘Your daughter. Riley.’ ‘The apple of my eye,’ he says. ‘Nineteen,’ I say. ‘Lacrosse player.’ You know where this is going, don’t you?”

  All too well.

  “And I say, ‘If it’d been Riley dragged down three flights of stairs, sneezing out her teeth like they were enameled snot, would you re-admit Jocko to the program, treat his anger issues?’ That did it. Strong gets in my face, waving his finger under my nose, and he says, ‘Just one minute, young lady,’ and I say, ‘Forget “young lady,” I’m a state investigator. I carry a badge, I carry a gun, and I have the power to arrest.’ Leo says this interview’s over and the flack says this could cost Jocko the Outland Trophy.”

  “That explains it then,” J.J. said.

  “Explains what?”

  “Cassady’s got the A.G. on the horn before you hit your car, and the Worm brings me in for a heart-to-heart, he says, actual words, you’re off the reservation.”

  “My name is Vasquez, not Geronimo.”

  “Very good, Allie. Very, very good.”

  “He wants to fire me.”

  “No. He wants me to fire you.”

  “So I guess I’m not your sandwich babe anymore.”

  J.J. made her wait for a moment. “I told him I wanted to hear your version,” he said finally. “And I’ve got to say it’s a good deal more colorful than I was led to believe.”

  “That means you don’t believe it.”

  “No. It means the truth is in the details. The Gatorade and the Outland Trophy. And Leo Cassady threatening Ms. Barnes with a courtroom environment. You can’t make that up.” He paused, taking her in. “This is all on tape?”

  Allie nodded.

  “You make a duplicate?”

  She nodded again. Of course. Allie would have made sure she was covered in case the Worm made a move against her. She always covered her back. And her flanks. Minority thinking. “Give it to me, and I’ll give it to the A.G.”

  “That should make his day.” She looked at J.J. “Is Poppy really going to run against him?”

  He tried to maintain a professional posture. As ridiculous as he knew he sounded. “This office is not influenced by the career ambitions of the state’s elected representatives.”

  “You go right on believing that, J.J.”

  There was a knock at the conference room door, and Harvey Niland, his number two chair, entered, followed by Patsy Feiffer dragging a wheeled evidence trunk behind her. Harvey was nearing retirement. How I do not want to end up, J.J. thought. Harvey Niland at sixty. Looking tired, thinking tired. For ten years, Harvey had waited to be appointed to the bench, but every year the Committee on Judicial Appointments had passed him by, always listing him as “Qualified,” its lowest recommendation. The only qualification needed for “Qualified” was still to be breathing.

  “You were so good on News at One,” Patsy Feiffer said, hefting the evidence trunk onto the conference table. She was blond and limber, and whatever the season wore mix-and-match pastels, even on the most frigid winter days when the wind cut to the bone and the snow stung the face. She never missed an opportunity to compliment him. “That’s so right about not keeping score at a murder trial.
I mean, it’s not a game, is it, J.J.?”

  J.J. looked over at Allie. His face was a mask. “Allie and I were talking about you, Patsy.” He wore his bad cold smile. His take-no-prisoners smile, Allie called it. Patsy glanced quickly at Allie, acknowledging her presence for the first time with the briefest of nods, then expectantly back at J.J., waiting to hear why she had been under discussion. “Allie doesn’t like you,” he said pleasantly. “She thinks you’re a babycake.” Patsy appeared stricken. Allie was impassive. Harvey Niland seemed not present, as if counting the days to his retirement. J.J. bored ahead. “Pampered. Entitled.” Nothing I had actually said, Allie recalled later. But in the ballpark. “Lady Bountiful.” The kind of frontal attack that was his courtroom trademark. “Always high-hatting her.”

  Patsy tried to gather a response. “I don’t really see why you and . . .” She pointed at Allie as if she could not bear to say her name.

  “Try ‘Allie,’ ” J.J. interrupted. “Short for Altagracia. Allie. Vasquez.” Then cutting each word off as if with a knife, he said, “And I really don’t see why you don’t have a response ready.” His voice lowered dangerously. “In a courtroom, you have to be prepared for every surprise. It never goes the way you want it to go. If you don’t answer, if you look as if you’re going to cry, as you do right now, then you’re lost, throw in the towel. ‘Your Honor, the prosecution asks for a directed verdict of not guilty by reason of prosecutorial incompetence.’ ” J.J. tented his fingers. “I assume you want to try cases . . .”

  Patsy nodded blankly.

  “Then give me an answer.” He raised his voice. “Now.”

  “I don’t see any justification for this . . .” Patsy began.

  “Justification?” His voice was contemptuous. “You think a lion needs justification to take down a zebra? His justification is he’s hungry. His justification is he can.” He was in her face. “You say, ‘BFD.’ You ever hear Allie say that? ‘Big fucking deal.’ You probably didn’t know what it meant. Or you say, ‘Of course she doesn’t, I’m a lawyer, she’s not, she takes night courses at an unaccredited law school from a homo who was fired from this office.’ You say, ‘Of course she doesn’t, she’s an envious bitch.’ You say, ‘Of course she doesn’t, she knows you want to get in my pants.’ ”

  Patsy seemed near tears. J.J. leaned close to her. “It doesn’t matter what you say,” he said quietly. “Just say something. The more outrageous the better. And if you’re in trial and the judge says you’re out of order, skirting contempt, BFD, you got the jury’s attention back. You’re the lion. The lioness. Belching after you eat the zebra.” He reached down and patted her hand. “You just learned more about criminal court behavior than you picked up in three years of law school. Don’t forget that.” He sat back in his chair. “And Allie thinks you’re just swell. Right, Allie?”

  “Just swell,” Allie said.

  “Good.” A big smile. “Harvey, you awake?”

  Harvey Niland removed a file from the Toledo evidence trunk. “Tadeusz Lynch.”

  “He arrived from Durango Avenue yet?”

  “He’s in the holding tank.”

  “You got him dressed? I don’t want him showing up in his orange jumpsuit.”

  “He’s shaky, J.J.”

  “Of course he’s shaky. He’s going to rat out Toledo.”

  “Patsy thinks we should ask for a continuance.” Typical Harvey. His idea, but he laid it off on Patsy in case it got shot down.

  J.J. turned to Patsy. She seemed to have regained some of her composure. “Why?”

  “I think he needs a little prepping.”

  “His resolve needs stiffening, you mean? He wants to be clear on what he gets for turning rat? How big a chunk of cheese he’s looking at?”

  Patsy nodded.

  “Let me tell you a story,” J.J. said after a moment. “Three years ago. Ellen Tracy’s court downstairs. I’m examining my witness. One Wendell Z. I have successfully established that Z stands for just that. Z. He is Mr. Z. So I ask Mr. Z—Wendell—what exactly the accused, one Luscious Odelle, said to him immediately prior to committing the three counts of homicide that had brought us to Judge Tracy’s court. Wendell answers, and I quote, within reasonable parameters of accuracy, and believing that my memory still has most of its pixels: Wendell says, ‘Luscious say Nadine messing around with Antoyne. Luscious say he mean to take care of Nadine. Then he mean to take care of Antoyne.’ So I ask Wendell if Luscious mentioned how he meant to take care of Nadine. ‘With his blade,’ Wendell said. I asked Wendell what Luscious meant to do with the blade in question, which had already been entered as a prosecution exhibit, and Wendell says, ‘Luscious say he going to hit Nadine upside the head, and then he going to take that blade . . .’ ” J.J. paused to see if he had everyone’s attention. “ ‘. . . he going to take that blade and cut out her pussy.’ That did it. Four bells. Defcon 2. Ellen Tracy leans so far over the bench her size-six triple-A’s clear the floor . . .”

  “J.J.,” Patsy Feiffer said, “is this relevant to the Toledo trial?”

  J.J. ignored her. “ ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa,’ Tracy says. “ ‘In this courtroom, we refer to the sexual organs by their clinical terms. In this case, the vagina. Understood?’ ”

  “J.J.,” Patsy insisted.

  “In due time, Patsy. ‘Wendell,’ I say, ‘you heard Her Honor’s admonition.’ And he just stares at me, ‘admonition’ not being a word common to the purviews where the Z family operates. So I spell out what Tracy had said, and I say, ‘You understand, right?’ Wendell nods, and I resume my line of questioning. ‘Wendell,’ I say, ‘under the strictures laid down by the court, please continue your account of what happened the afternoon in question. ‘Well, Luscious be mad,’ Wendell said, ‘because Nadine messing around with Antoyne . . .’ ”

  “J.J., we have a motion to frame,” Patsy Feiffer said.

  “For the last time, Patsy,” J.J. said, “shut up and let me finish. Understood?”

  Patsy nodded unhappily.

  “ ‘Luscious go looking for Nadine,’ Wendell says. ‘And when Luscious found Nadine?’ I say. ‘He hit her upside the head,’ Wendell says. I now have his full attention. Wendell is on the program. ‘What happened then?’ I say. And Wendell says, ‘Luscious grabs Nadine . . .’ Then he breaks off. He’s looking for help. ‘Judge,’ he says finally, ‘what’s that word you say I got to use instead of “pussy”?’ ”

  Allie laughed.

  “I don’t find that amusing,” Patsy Feiffer said, without looking at Allie.

  “You think it’s suggestive and could be construed as sexual harassment?” J.J. said.

  Patsy did not reply.

  “You think it’s an inappropriate story to tell in the middle of a murder trial?”

  “Yes.”

  “You would prefer full focus on The People v. Toledo. ”

  “Yes.”

  “Full attention on his motion for a continuance?”

  “Yes.”

  “So we can stiffen Tadeusz Lynch’s backbone?”

  “Yes.”

  “And make sure his story rhymes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t think Murray Lubin would welcome that motion? You don’t think he’d love a continuance so he could gin up his own line on Mr. Lynch?” J.J. let the question sink in. “Give Murray two more days and he would rip Lynch’s heart out.” Patsy started to speak, then stopped. “We don’t give him that chance. We put Lynch on first thing. He places the murder weapon in Bobby Toledo’s hand. Murray maybe gives him a bloody nose, but that’s all, nothing we can’t handle, Tadeusz is back in leg irons and on the bus home to Durango Avenue before the afternoon break.” J.J. looked from Patsy to Harvey. “Any objections?” Neither spoke. “Didn’t think so. See you in court.”

  Patsy closed the evidence trunk and wrestled it to the floor. When she opened the door, J.J. said, “Patsy, could you get me a bottle of water and put it under my chair.” Patsy hesitated, her back stiffening. S
he did not turn around. “And make sure it’s cold.”

  Patsy maneuvered the wheels of the trunk over the door saddle and let the door slam behind her.

  After a moment, Allie said, “What did that story about Wendell X . . .”

  “Z . . .”

  “. . . have to do with the Toledo case?”

  “Nothing. I just thought the tension level needed to be lowered a bit.”

  “Good thinking. It really did the trick for Patsy.”

  “Sarcasm’s not your long suit.”

  “I thought you were giving yourself time to figure out why a continuance motion was a crappy idea. Say something. Isn’t that what you told Patsy?”

  J.J. rose and slipped his jacket on. “On the money.” He stared at her for a moment. “Max Cline might turn you into a pretty good lawyer.”

  “When Max told that story, Wendell’s name was X. Mustafa X.”

  J.J. smiled. “It’s a courthouse classic. I was betting Patsy had never heard it. And Harvey’s brain-dead.”

  “You’re a real shit.”

  “Agreed.”

  MAX

  Allie gave me chapter and verse later, after a class in cross-examination in my role as mentor-savant to the less than privileged, the not quite Caucasian, and the first-language-anything-but-English minorities who were my students at Osceola Community.

  “Why was he so beastly to what’s-her-name?”

  “Patsy.”

  “Softening her up?”

  Allie shrugged.