Chapter 11 Eddie

11

Eddie

As a former con artist, I have an advantage over some of my fellow lawyers. A trial verdict is rendered by twelve members of the public who form a jury. For the skilled lawyer, or ex-conman, a group of people presents an opportunity. Success or failure as a lawyer is not determined by your knowledge of the law – it is, however, greatly determined by your knowledge of human behavior. When cross-examining a witness, you should know the answer to a question before you ask it – not because you can see the future – but because you know the witness, you've studied them, and you have, through the timing, phrasing and intonation of your question, pre-determined the response. And that answer, which has been manipulated from the witness, is designed solely to help influence those twelve jurors in your favor.

It's all about people. And it's much easier to influence a group of people than a single individual.

Plenty of philosophers, sociologists, psychologists and every two-bit hustler on the street make it their business to understand how individuals and groups think. It's not just academic, it's big business. That's why every soda ad has a bunch of happy, attractive people drinking ice-cold cans together. In the publishing world a book really takes off when it gets that magic quality of ‘word-of-mouth'. Most TV shows get popular when groups of people talk about them on social media. Videos with mass appeal go viral. And the lemmings who don't know what they're doing buy stocks in the market when everyone is buying that same stock. It's powerful stuff.

And you've got to know how to use it.

With my back to the wall of the courthouse building, I watched Castro, flanked by his assistants, take up a position in front of a group of eager journalists.

I checked the street. It was busy. Lots of folk leaving their offices for the day to go get food and drink, or make their journey home.

The stage was set.

It wasn't the best start for the DA. I watched him for what felt like ten minutes, but was probably only ten seconds. He made a brief introduction, then stood there in silence while he patted his jacket pockets, looking for his speech.

‘Ahm . . . aahhhmm . . .' he said, mumbling, ‘Where is the . . .'

An awkward silence wrapped around him like ice forming on a car windshield. It was excruciating. Another five seconds of cameras rolling, reporters coughing just to break the heavy, embarrassing atmosphere. Castro stopped searching for his speech, grabbed the podium like he was steadying himself on a ship sailing through stormy seas.

There was nothing else he could do but start talking.

‘Ahmm . . . when . . . when murder came to my neighborhood, I mourned the loss of Margaret Blakemore. Now, I'm taking down her murderer . . .'

‘You come out all guns blazing when there's a murder on your own doorstep,' said a voice, through a bullhorn behind me. A man in a black suit raised the bullhorn over his head, let everyone on the street see him standing thirty feet from Castro. His name was Morgan Montgomery, or Momo to his friends. He was Castro's opponent in the upcoming DA election.

‘What about the young black man murdered in the Bronx last week?' said Momo, ‘Or the five hate-crime attacks on Asian men and women in Chinatown just this month? Or the eight murders last month in Harlem? Where's their press conference?'

The press had turned away from Castro – they were staring at Momo.

And that's when I saw Porsche Bloomingdale, in her sweatpants and hoody, crossing the street to stand in front of Momo, watching him speak. She was quickly joined by Eric Fong and Veronica Colville-North. Eric Rothschild stopped in his tracks beside them and, slowly, it happened. Other people, not in the employ of Al Parish, stopped in the street to listen to Momo, observing every available law of human crowd behavior – if people were stopping to listen to this guy – then they wanted to stop and hear what he had to say too. Crowds formed like gravity. All I did was help it along a little. Human behavior did the rest.

Within thirty seconds, a crowd of around twenty people had gathered around Momo, and he addressed them and the journalists directly. Soon as that crowd built up, the journalists stepped away from Castro, the cameras turned away from the DA too, the media ran the short distance to stand in front of Momo and cover his speech.

Momo said, ‘This DA only cares about victims if they happen to be in his neighborhood. He's not a DA for the people – he's all about himself . . .'

Harrison Washington III, still looking a little sore about his ruined designer jeans, redeemed himself in my eyes by starting the chant.

Mo-mo.

Mo-mo.

Mo-mo.

The chant took over the crowd organically. The story that would be on the news that night was not about John Jackson. Now, it was about the DA's disastrous press conference, his record – and his bias – and the fact that he only cares about this murder because it happened in his neighborhood. The coverage would all be focused on Momo.

Castro's assistant ADAs hung their heads, or casually broke away from him and wandered back to the office.

Not Castro.

He was staring straight at me.

I took his speech from my jacket pocket. I'd swiped it from him in a bump-lift when I almost knocked him over in his office. He didn't feel my light fingers reaching into his jacket.

I folded his speech again, tore it half.

Castro pointed at me, then turned and walked away.

It was on. Total war. Just the way I like it.

After ten minutes, Momo finished his speech, did a few soundbites for the cameras and the crowd dispersed. Momo put his bullhorn in his backpack and came over to me.

‘Thanks for that, Eddie. The donation too.'

‘It's only twenty-five grand, but it should help. I hope you win. I don't like Castro.'

‘Good luck to you, and your client. See you around, Eddie.'

He left, and I put my back to the wall of the courthouse and waited.

I scanned the street.

An SUV was parked across the street. The doors opened, Bloch and Lake got out and came over to meet me.

‘Any eyes on me?' I asked.

‘Nothing,' said Lake.

Bloch shook her head.

‘Well, keep them peeled. Somebody is going to take up that contract. I'd like to live long enough to defend Jackson.'

‘We'll take you back to the office,' said Lake. ‘Bloch got the super to put some extra locks on the door. You'll need to stay there till we come back.'

‘Where are you two going?'

‘We're going to take a look at the crime scene,' said Lake.

Bloch's head swiveled to the left. She watched a man in a long raincoat come out of the courthouse. He watched us as he left, then crossed the street and headed away.

I hadn't noticed, but Bloch had reached for her piece. She took her hand from the inside of her jacket, said, ‘I don't like this.'

‘I ain't exactly happy about it either. Just don't tell Harry or Kate. Like we agreed.'

Bloch nodded, said, ‘I wish I knew who was coming for you. I don't like waiting.'

‘It's a waiting game. What's the alternative?' asked Lake.

‘A hunting game,' said Bloch.