Chapter 8 Eddie

8

Eddie

Before I met the rest of my team, I had Tony swing by my apartment so I could pick up a few personal items.

I didn't want to be caught empty-handed on the street if some hitman from Wyoming tried to stick a .22 in my face. The brass knuckles I kept in the office for emergencies were too damn heavy, but the ceramic pair in my bureau at home were light enough to carry around in my pockets without ruining the lining of my suit. For good measure, I put my switchblade in my sock. That pearl-handled knife had been a gift from Jimmy, way back after I won my first amateur fight. Jimmy was the better boxer, but I was faster. We trained together, grew up together. I was glad to know him.

Tony dropped me off at the foot of a skyscraper on Wall Street. The law offices of Al Parish were a lot different from Flynn and Brooks. Spread over five floors. Views of the river. Everything was polished chrome, mahogany and brass. Filled with lawyers in expensive bespoke suits.

No fear of clients hearing screams coming from the floor below as somebody got Mama's Boy tattooed across their ass cheeks.

Harry and Kate were waiting in the reception area.

‘Glad you could make it,' said Kate.

‘Jackson here yet?' I asked.

‘He's in the conference room with Al and half a dozen other people in suits. All of them charging two hundred an hour,' said Harry.

‘We got a plan on how to deal with the DA's press conference?' asked Kate.

‘I'm getting there. For now, I need you to handle this meeting with John. You need to tell him that he's going to be alright.'

‘But he might go to prison for the rest of his life,' said Kate.

‘Sure he might. But for now we need him to be fighting. You've got to tell him he's about to walk through hell, but he'll come out alive and a free man.'

‘Why me?'

Harry leaned over, said, ‘Because when you tell people everything is going to be alright, they'll believe you. You're not selling it. You're just stating a fact.'

I nodded, looked at the empty leather chair beside Harry. Then took a moment to examine my suit. My tie was half done up, shirt collar open. The shirt was out of a packet of three, the black suit came off the rack. Harry always carried an air of elegance, no matter what he wore. Today he sported a red woolen cardigan under his brown tweed blazer. Dark gray pants. Polished shoes, handmade by a famous gentleman's store in London. Kate always looked classy: dark business suit, white blouse, a million pens in her bag and three legal pads. Organized. Utterly professional.

Harry and Kate looked as if they belonged with the lawyers in here.

I looked like a defendant.

Reluctantly, I sat in the leather chair and tried not to make the place look untidy.

A lawyer came through the glass doors that separated the reception area from the hive of the law offices.

‘We're ready for you now. If you'd like to follow me?' she said.

We got up, and I followed Harry and Kate down a long, timber-lined corridor to an expansive conference room with the same floor space as our entire office. Wall to wall suits. Al Parish sat at the head of the table, Jackson on his left beside his wife. I began counting the young associates and stopped when I got over ten.

John looked pale. His wife, a blond lady with a soft face and sad eyes, yanked a fresh Kleenex from the box in front of her. She dabbed at her eyes.

Parish introduced us to Alison Jackson. Her voice was cracked with emotion, hoarse and filled with fear. She made a point of saying hello to all of us. Harry took her delicate hand in his, placed his palm on her shoulder and said, ‘We're going to take good care of John, I promise.'

She forced a smile.

Alison sat back down beside her husband then cast a nervous glance around the crowded room. Kate watched her, then leaned over and whispered to me, ‘This place is like an airport lounge on Christmas Eve. It's freaking Alison out. We need to clear some people out of here.'

I nodded, turned to the closest lawyer to me. He was young. Early twenties. Fair hair, blue eyes and a jaw so square and perfect that it looked like it had come out of a catalogue.

‘What do you do here?' I asked.

‘I'm a junior associate assigned to Mr. Jackson's defense team. Name's Broderick Rothschild,' he said, and stuck out a muscular hand with soft pink skin as smooth as a newborn's.

I shook hands and he flashed me a smile from a toothpaste commercial.

‘And you?' I said, to the young lady beside him.

‘Veronica Colville-North,' she said. ‘Junior associate.'

‘Eric Fong,' said another one.

‘Porsche Bloomingdale . . .'

‘Harrison Washington the Third . . .'

I stopped faking interest when I got to Harrison Washington III. They were all rich kids. Harvard Law grads. Top of the class. The very best young legal minds in the entire country.

Which made them completely useless to me and our client.

Nobody knows less about winning a murder trial than a young, highly educated lawyer. They may as well have majored in plumbing. The trouble is some of them think they know everything and the rest just think they know something – which might be even worse.

Still, at least I had an idea on how to blow up Castro's press conference.

‘Al, I need to borrow these fine associates of yours,' I said.

‘Be my guest. They've already prepared motions on discovery and have provided briefs on all the relevant case law. Was there something specific you had in mind?'

‘Sure, I need them to go home and change.'

Parish looked at me strangely. I turned to the assembled associates, said, ‘I need you all to go home and change your clothes. Wear baggy, ripped jeans. Sweatpants. T-shirts. Beanie hats. Whatever is the worst clothing you have in your wardrobe. Put it on and meet me in Foley Square in an hour.'

I turned back to Parish.

‘Al, I assume John has paid you a retainer. I need some of it. For legal expenses.'

‘Expenses?' asked Parish.

‘Sure, expenses. Murder trials cost money. I need twenty-five grand in cash.'

‘What on earth for?' asked Al.

Jackson looked puzzled too.

‘John, my colleague Kate is going to talk you through the trial. Trust her. Trust me. The money you gave to Al's firm is for your defense. I need twenty-five thousand for part of that defense.'

‘What part?' asked John.

‘The part that's going to keep your face off the six o'clock news.'