“Night program.”
“Good for you.”
“Nothing noble. I have to work.”
“Sorry it can't be me.”
“Maybe it will be,” she said. “God works in mysterious ways.”
“God? I don't think he works at all.”
She cocked her head.
Steve said with a smile, “If God existed, would he allow
Deal or
No Deal
? I don't think so.”
At which point his office phone rang. Steve made a move toward it, but Sienna picked up and said, “Mr. Conroy's office.” He liked that, liked her attitude. A little aggressive but without giving offense. Steve watched her eyes as she processed whatever was on the other end. “And what is this regarding? Mr. Conroy is very busy . . . Oh? If you'll hold, please.”
She covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “I told you God works. You want a chance to make some serious bucks?”
An hour later, the woman was gone and Steve was still wondering what had happened.
He'd come back to an office he couldn't get into, with prospects about as promising as a one-legged tap dancer, to find a mysterious but welcome young woman saving his sorry behind.
Not only that, but she'd fielded a call from a prisoner in Fenton named Johnny LaSalle, who had called him with an offer to pay ten thousand dollars.
More than enough to justify a Saturday drive out to Fenton in the morning.
As tantalizing as that possibility was, it was the woman who kept sneaking into his thoughts.
She was obviously sharp. She'd proven that on the fly.
And more than a little good-looking.
Which made him wonder if any woman could love him again, after what he'd done to Ashley, what he'd put her through. He didn't believe in God, but there was some kind of yin and yang thing going on. You mess up over here, you have to pay over there. Flip off a driver on the 101, you're going to get the finger on the 405. It's just a matter of time.
Could somebody trust him again, like Ashley had? More to the point, could he justify that trust?
Not bloody likely. His record was not a good one. And what was the point of hopes after all? You only get them smashed like ants under a boot. The cycle repeats itself. It had ever since he was five years old. He was damaged goods, and there wasn't any God, no warranty from a Creator that guaranteed good working order. He knew that even at five, when he'd prayed and got nothing back but a dead brother.
The cycle, the cycle.
He needed something to get his mind off it.
The monkey was screeching and he knew he'd better call Gincy.
But he wanted to handle it himself, which he knew was wrong. Bad move for recovery. The moment the screeches sound in the background, you call your sponsor.
You don't go play pool. That's a fool's gambit.
So naturally it's the one he took.
His favorite place for a rack was The Cue on Sherman Way, about a mile from his office. It was just past four thirty when he pulled to the curb in front of the place and fed the meter.
It felt good to go in. Here he was among friends. The fellowship of the stick. Here he could shoot around and indulge his fantasy of being a champ at something. Living in a pretend world was a very good thing. When he was snorting, he used to say reality was just an escape for people who can't face drugs. Now that he was clean, the occasional illusion was the ticket. In a pretend world, the shadows couldn't get you.
For a while at least.
He scattered the balls randomly on table six and started making kick shots and cross sides and muttering to his phantom opponent,
I'm the best you've ever seen, Red. Admit it. Up the bet? Sure. Hundred
a game?
He was getting ready to put some hard English on the rock when he heard, “Hey, boy, we don't like hustlers around here.”
Steve recognized the voice. Without turning he said, “How's it goin', Norm?”
“You come down here just for me?”
“Right, Norm. We who orbit around you just can't help it.”
With face stubble and a wrinkled flannel shirt, Norm Gaylord looked like one of the roving homeless along Topanga. He also looked like what he really was, an Emmy Award â winning TV writer who couldn't get arrested. Steve had met him here at The Cue a few years after Norm's sitcom was cancelled and he was turning to meth to write faster.
Which resulted in the loss of his wife and house. Later, when the cops nabbed him in a buy, he called Steve. Steve got Norm into diversion and out of being prosecuted. Norm was grateful and, like several other clients, still owed Steve money.
“Shouldn't you be in court getting criminals back on the street where they belong?” Norm asked.
“Shouldn't you be writing so you can earn enough to pay me?”
“What is it with you lawyers?” In a high-pitched voice Norm sang, “
Money, money, money
.”
“You write better than you sing, and I'm not even sure how good you write.”
“Thanks, pal.”
“How's the job prospects?”
“You want to know or you just blowing methane?”
“Norm, I've got a vested interest in your career now.”
“Okay. I got a killer idea. This one's gonna sell. It's called
The
Littlest Mayor.
A kid gets elected mayor of a major city.”
“And zany hijinks ensue?” Steve said.
“How'd you know?”
“Wild guess.”
“This one's got to go. I need it, man.”
“You clean?”
“Of course I'm clean!”
“Good.”
“You?”
“Yeah,” Steve said. Sure. About as clean as a rusty pipe.
“How's the wife?” Norm asked.
Steve shook his head. No verbal requirement here. He'd let Norm in a little closer than most clients. Recognized Norm was a fellow traveler along the troubled road. He'd allowed it to come out that he and Ashley weren't likely to make it. Norm knew all about that too.
“Sorry to hear it,” Norm said. “Really, man.”
Steve said nothing. He pressed the chalk on his cue a little too hard. Like he wanted to rub some thoughts away.
“So,” Norm said, “you want to shoot a ten-game freeze-out?”
Steve put the chalk down with a loud
thwack.
“You kiddin' me? You're betting with what?”
“I'm not gonna lose, so it don't matter.”
“Maybe another time. After you've paid me.”
“Will you drop that?”
Instead, Steve bent over the cue ball and shot the nine in the corner.
“Very nice shot,” Norm said.
“I'll shoot you friendly.”
“You buying the beer?”
Steve couldn't help laughing at the audacity, the nerve, the gall. For that reason alone he bought the beers. Norm Gaylord was one of those guys who seemed to be able to charge through life's minefield and somehow come up on the other side wounded, but having everyone else buy his drinks. Steve could use a little of that same luck himself.
Maybe tomorrow would be a new day. If he could make it through the night without scratching the itch, maybe tomorrow would be the beginning of a Steve Conroy upswing.
A ten-thousand-dollar upswing. It was worth a drive.
The state prison at Fenton was an hour and a half northeast of Los Angeles. A maximum-security facility, it housed nearly four thousand hard-core felons. A year ago the National Guard had to be called in to put down a riot that left one guard and seven inmates dead.
A racial thing, the news said. Steve knew how true that was. As a deputy district attorney, he'd seen the full racial spectrum pass through the court system and into the jails and prisons. And despite the best efforts and intentions of everyone involved, from the ACLU to the governor of the state, racial separatism was endemic in corrections.
He thought about this on Saturday morning as he drove up Highway 14, got off on the hot flats where he could see the forbidding brown walls, razor wire, and guard towers of Fenton. As far as he knew, he had only one client here. A three-striker named George Clarke who went down for the full term for stealing a CD player. Steve was hoping he wouldn't see Clarke in the attorney room. Clarke hadn't been too thankful for the legal representation he got.
Steve completely agreed with Clarke. Steve was on the candy back then, and it showed. Clarke had a review pending in the appellate court for ineffective assistance of counsel. He was likely to prevail. Then he'd be out for another trial. And Steve's name would get speckled with some more mud.
The price you pay.
His last foster father, Harley Rust, used to say that. No free meals in this life. Well, the meal had been served. Plenty of crow. And Steve was still paying.
How long would it last? Who knew? But you had to start someplace, and maybe this would be it. Maybe Sienna Ciccone was some kind of good-luck charm. She's in the office and you get a phone call that has some good money on the other end.
Steve pulled up to the gate and gave his name, driver's license, and bar card to the guard, who checked Steve off a list and told him where to park. He took a spot next to a black SUV, grabbed his briefcase from the backseat. The case had nothing in it but a pad and pen and an apple, but it gave a lawyerly illusion. Steve didn't want to hand his potential new client an instant reason to say, “No thanks, I was actually looking for somebody who seems to know what he's doing.”
Steve was buzzed in and escorted through a heavy steel door, then down a yellow corridor to the attorney room of the prison. It was a rectangular chamber containing four heavy desks with aluminum benches. The beige linoleum floor was well scuffed, testimony to the heavy steps of overworked deputies and midlevel lawyers.
The room was empty as Steve entered, except for a deputy sheriff with arms like rolled-up sleeping bags sitting at a special desk with a single, multiline phone. He looked at Steve and made no attempt at conversation. Not that Steve expected any. Here, criminal defense lawyers were considered on the same level as stuff scraped off a farmer's shoe.
Steve sat at one of the tables, opened his briefcase, and pulled out the pad and pen. He wiped a film of sweat off his forehead. At the top of the page he wrote
Johnny LaSalle
and the date. The scratching of the pen seemed all the louder for the silence in the room.
For the next five minutes he jotted random notes, so it looked like he was thinking about the situation.
Actually, he was. Johnny LaSalle was finishing a seven-year stretch for armed robbery. According to the research Steve had done the night before, LaSalle had some sort of white supremacist record. Not much more on that, except that he was allegedly a pretty violent guy. Once beat up a Vietnamese busboy in a bar, sending the kid to the hospital. Was charged with a hate crime. Pretty easy to prove when you're shouting racial slurs as you stomp a guy's head.
The record didn't deter Steve in any way. He knew that when you rep criminals you're not going to get the Vienna Boys' Choir. The most important thing was the criminal defense lawyer's number one rule: Get the fee up front.
A rule he'd forgotten in his representation of Carlos Mendez. But Steve was more than a little desperate at the time. Sort of like now.
Finally the gray interior door opened and a deputy sheriff walked in. Behind him jangled the prisoner.
Johnny LaSalle wore prison whites and had shackled hands and ankles. His hair was cut short. No skinhead. They didn't allow that here. His forearms were covered with dark blue prison tats. Blue eyes in deep sockets made him seem older than he was. The effects of a hard life were inscribed in lines and crags on a face that, in other circumstances, might have been angelic.
The entire effect, from the very start, was electric. Almost mesmerizing. LaSalle had that rare face that could command â
demand
â attention just by showing up. A dangerous kind of face to be around for any length of time.
As he slid onto the opposite bench, LaSalle kept his eyes trained on Steve. Disconcerting to say the least. A typical prisoner's move, Steve knew. Trying to capture the high ground. But even though Steve had seen the move before, it was never as effective as this.
Steve gave him a casual nod. He wanted to make it seem like he could take this case or leave it, even though the thought of a ten-grand retainer kept nibbling at his cerebral cortex, causing twitches.
Steve waited until the deputy attached LaSalle's wrist shackles to the desk and then left through the same door.
“How you doing?” Steve said.
“The scent of hope slips through my fingers,” LaSalle said with the hint of a smile.
“Excuse me?”
“The scent of hope.”
“Is that Shakespeare or something?”
“Jessica Simpson. You like her music?”
Okay. Weird. Steve had not driven all the way up here to engage in a colloquy about the merits of airhead music. “Mr. LaSalle, you asked to see me.”
“Indeed.”
“Well, I'm here.”
“It's good to see you.”
Good to see you? What was that supposed to mean? It felt for a second like the guy wanted to sell a used car or something.
“What can I do for you?” Steve said. “I understand you'll be paroled in a couple of weeks. You need representation on another matter?”
“It's much deeper than that.”
“How deep?”
“Real deep, Steve.”
Calling him by his first name. A familiarity the prisoner hadn't earned. Cynicism crawled into Steve's gut. This whole thing was starting to feel like a very bad idea.
“I'm not really in a mood to guess what you want,” Steve said. “Can you tell me in twenty-five words or less?”
“Easy,” LaSalle said. “Let me ask you something first. It's important. I think you'll see why. Do you believe in God?”
The sharp blue eyes, which seemed to have halcyon sources, bore into Steve. He shifted a little on the hard chair.