Bum Rap (2 page)

-4-

Last Chance Lassiter

I
want an innocent client.

I
need
an innocent client.

I don’t mean
not guilty
because the state can’t meet its burden of proof. But
innocent
. “Factually innocent,” as we mouthpieces call it.

I’ve been trying cases for twenty years after a short, unspectacular career as a second-string linebacker with the Miami Dolphins. I made a few memorable hits on the suicide squads—the kickoff and punt teams—but mostly I sat so far down Shula’s bench, my ass was in Ocala. I went to night law school in the off-season, graduated in the top half of the bottom third of my class, and passed the bar exam on my fourth try. I’ve been bouncing from courtroom to courtroom in the so-called justice system ever since.

My name is Jake Lassiter, and I’m a grinder. I am not called to speak at fancy conventions in five-star hotels. The governor has not offered me black robes and elevated me to the bench. I am not interviewed by CNN to comment on the latest trial of the century. And I am not rich.

Here’s what I do. Burglary. Robbery. Assault and battery. Con games. Stolen cars. Embezzlement. Drug possession. And, of course, murder. For whatever reason, I’m particularly good at murder. Maybe because the stakes are so h
igh, my engine revs to the red line. Not that a murder trial is a sprint. It’s a marathon where everyone along the road throws rocks at you as you chug along. You have to be able to take a hit.

It’s a lot like the kickoff team in football. The fastest man is not necessarily the one who makes the tackle. More likely, the flier will be picked off by one of the blockers. The player who’s not particularly fast but senses the blocker’s angle can knock the bastard aside, keep rumbling along, and make the hit. That’s what kept me on the Dolphins for three years, and it’s my theory of trying a murder case. Play within yourself. Predict your opponent’s move before it happens, and beat him to the punch. If you’re not particularly swift or shifty—meaning if you’re me—a forearm blast to the throat will do.

On the field or in the courtroom, try not to get knocked on your ass, but if you do, never let them see your pain. Bounce to your feet and head for the ball.

Here’s what I won’t do as a lawyer. I won’t represent a man accused of violence against women or children because my granny taught me that such scum do not deserve my time or effort. Otherwise, it’s pretty much anything goes.

I take a lot of cases other lawyers turn down. Either the money is short or the odds of winning are long. That’s earned me the name “Last Chance Lassiter.”

I pick up cases here and there. Sometimes I just stand by the elevator on the fourth floor of the Richard E. Gerstein Justice Building. Someone who’s headed for an arraignment naked—without a lawyer—will spot me. I’m a big guy in a suit with a briefcase, and I don’t look lost. Maybe they like my broken nose or my decent haircut, or maybe they’re just scared.

“You a lawyer, dude?”

“Best one you can afford . . . dude.”

Money is always a problem. My first question to a potential customer—yeah, I sometimes call them that—is not “Did you do it?” It’s “How much money do you have?” And, yes, I take credit cards. But not a mortgage on a customer’s house. Not because I’d feel lousy about foreclosing. Because I once got burned when the IRS leapfrogged the mortgage I was holding with a lien for unpaid taxes, leaving my client without a house and me without a fee.

Sometimes former customers refer their pals. This puzzles me, because those ex-customers are nearly always in prison. I guess they don’t blame me for losing. After all, they were guilty, and they watched me work my ass off on their behalf.

That’s a fact of the business. Most of my customers are guilty as hell. I only win when the state can’t prove its case or otherwise screws the pooch. I’m a damn good cross-examiner, and I’ve won cases by catching cops in lies. That doesn’t mean my customer wasn’t technically guilty. But if I can eviscerate the state’s witnesses and then work my magic in closing argument, I can get my customer off.

How else can I win? Sometimes the cops will conduct an unconstitutional search, or the prosecutors will fail to turn over exculpatory evidence, or the trial judge will err. On the occasions I win, I receive little gratitude. No Christmas cards or baskets of fruit. Maybe a grumbling complaint about the size of my fee.

The customer sees the stage play, not the work behind it. Writing the script, building the sets, painting the props, and learning the lines. The ingrate couldn’t care less. I’ll never hear from the victorious client again . . . until he’s arrested for something else.

Mostly I lose. Or plead my guy guilty. It’s a dirty little secret, but that’s the deal with most criminal defense lawyers, even the big names who pontificate on the tube. If anyone knew our real winning percentage, they’d cop a quick plea or flee the jurisdiction.

We all want to be heroes to our paying customers. John D. MacDonald, my favorite Florida writer—yeah, I read a bit—once began a book: “There are no hundred percent heroes.” If you ask my customers, they’d probably give me 51 percent. MacDonald also wrote, “If the cards are stacked against you, reshuffle the deck.” Well, I’m tired of holding a pair of deuces or a busted flush. Tired of the grind. Tired of losing. Which is why on this sweaty July day with a sky as gray as an angry ocean, I needed an innocent client.

I was juggling these thoughts while driving north on Dixie Highway toward I-95 on my way to the jail. Victoria Lord had called this morning while I was slicing mangoes for my nephew Kip’s smoothie. Victoria’s law partner and live-in lover, Steve Solomon, had managed to get himself arrested in the shooting death of some Russian club owner on South Beach.

“I don’t like Solomon,” I told her on the phone.

I know. I know. My marketing skills could use work.

“Do you like most of your clients?” she asked.

“Practically none.”

“But you bust your hump and break down doors to win.”

“I hate losing more than I hate the clients.”

“That’s why I’m hiring you. Plus you have street smarts and won’t fall for any of Steve’s bullshit.”

“Has he agreed to this?”

“Not yet.”

“Tell him I’ve punched out clients who lied to me.”

“You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to smack him.”

In front of me, a landscaper’s overloaded Ford pickup was dropping palm fronds and dead ferns all over the highway. I goosed the gas pedal and pulled my ancient Eldorado convertible into the passing lane. “Victoria, do you ever get tired of representing guilty people?”

“Steve swears he’s innocent.”

“And the law presumes he is. But I’m not talking about him. Does it ever get you down? That nearly everyone is guilty.”

She was silent on the phone a moment. Maybe wondering if she’d called the wrong guy. Then she said, “It comes with the territory, Jake. We force the state to meet its burden of proof. If they do it, we haven’t really lost. The system has won.”

“So you really believe the stuff they teach in law school?”

“If I didn’t, how could I go on?”

Exactly
, I thought. She hadn’t practiced long enough to lose her religion, the belief in the holiness of the justice system. I didn’t want to be a prick, so I didn’t say, “Give it ten more years, Victoria; then get back to me.”

Instead, I said, “See you and your presumably innocent partner in an hour.”

I knew them both a bit. They lived together on Kumquat, and I’m on Poinciana in Coconut Grove, so we’re practically neighbors. I’d recently seen Solomon tooling around the neighborhood in a jazzy new Corvette with a paint job they call “torch red.” Not my style. I’m also too big to fit comfortably in the driver’s seat. His personalized license plate was “I-OBJECT,” a pretty good summation of his temperament.

Solomon was a herky-jerky guy, always in motion, always gabbing. About six feet tall with dark hair that usually needed trimming. He weighed about as much as one of my buttocks, but he had that wiry strength. I’d seen him jogging down Old Cutler Road, and he kept up an impressive pace. In court, he badgered witnesses, pestered lawyers, and interrupted judges. His files were always a mess, and, basically, he was a pain in the ass. Showy and over the top by my standards, and I’m not exactly the shy and retiring type.

One day, in the Justice Building cafeteria, I joined Solomon at a luncheon table with several other lawyers. He was spouting off about “Solomon’s Laws,” rules he makes up that flout the system.

“If the facts don’t fit the law, bend the facts,” Solomon said, stuffing his face with eggplant Parmesan.

Everybody laughed. Except me. When I was a young lawyer, I represented an old musician named Cadillac Johnson whose song had been stolen by a hot young hip-hop artist. The copyright claim was murky and documents had been destroyed, but I knew in my gut that my guy had written the song several decades earlier.

“It’s a tough case, maybe impossible,” Cadillac told me.

“If your cause is just, no case is impossible,” I said.

Ever since, I’ve tried to live by those words. Problem is, just causes are hard to come by. And, oh yeah, I won a pile of cash for Cadillac’s retirement without bending the facts, though I did punch a guy out.

The first time I saw Victoria Lord, she was in court, and what I noticed was her posture. A tall, slender blonde who stood very straight and spoke with quiet confidence and authority. Tailored business suits and patrician good looks. Her table was neatly arranged with color-coded files that I’m sure were alphabetized and cross-indexed. Highly organized. A real pro at a young age. Maybe overly earnest for my taste. I could be wrong, but she seemed to be one of those anti-gluten, pro-yoga, organic wine bar, Generation-Y echo boomers. A Gwyneth Paltrow type who would name her first daughter Persimmon or whatever.

They’re really different, Solomon and Lord, but as people say, opposites attract. For whatever reason—maybe because they each bring different strengths to the courtroom—they’ve become a damn good trial team.

Traffic slowed to a halt between Seventeenth
Avenue and the entrance to I-95. A mattress lay in the middle lane. Typical. At least it wasn’t on fire. I was stuck behind a muddy old Chevy that belched oily smoke. The tag was expired, and I’d bet a hundred bucks the driver had neither a license nor insurance. I squeezed my oversize Eldo into the left lane, cutting off a young guy in a white Porsche. He banged his horn, and through the rearview, I saw him shoot me the bird.

Aw, screw you, Porsche Boy. And your designer sunglasses, too.

I’m tired of Miami. For a long time, I’ve felt out of place, a brew-and-burger guy in a pâté-and-chardonnay world.

I got a call a few weeks ago from Clarence Washington, an old Dolphins teammate. After retirement, he picked up a master’s degree and then a doctorate in education. And this from a kid who grew up in the projects. I have a lot of respect for Clarence. Now, he’s headmaster at a boy’s prep school in the green hills of Vermont. And to think I knew him when he tossed a beer keg off a seventh-story balcony into a hotel swimming pool. With a Dolphins cheerleader riding that keg all the way down.

Anyway, Clarence said he needed a new football coach. The guy who had the job had retired after like a hundred years. Apparently, there’s very little pressure coaching a bunch of pampered skinny white boys who play against others of their ilk. It doesn’t really matter if you win, as long as the uniforms don’t get too dirty and the parents’ cocktails are chilled. And you get to wear a sweat suit to work with the crest of the school on the chest.

So Vermont was on my mind as I drove to the stinkhole county jail, stuck in traffic, horns blaring, and the thermometer closing in on ninety-six degrees.

Steve Solomon, you may not know it, but you’re the tipping point. If you’re a lying scumbag murderer, I’m hanging up my shingle and heading north.

Green hills. Autumn leaves. Ben & Jerry’s.

Half an hour later, I pulled off the Dolphin Expressway onto Twelfth Avenue and parked my thirty-year-old convertible, canvas top up, in an open lot.

I walked to the jail, a hot rain falling, as it did practically every day in the summer. But as the fat drops pelted me, I could smell
the dewy grass of a manicured playing field on a cool September morning.

-5-

Nadia and the Feds (Part Two)

One week before the Gorev shooting . . .

Office of the United States Attorney for the Southern District of Florida

In Re: Investigation of South Beach Champagne Clubs and one “John Doe”

File No. 2014-73-B

Statement of Nadia Delova (Continuation)

July 7, 2014

(CONFIDENTIAL)

Q: [By AUSA Deborah Scolino] I understand your reluctance to become involved, Ms. Delova, but you may not appreciate the precariousness of your position.

A: [By Nadia Delova] I do not understand this word,
precar
. . .

Q: You admit signing the ESTA form marked as Exhibit A?

A: Yes.

Q: In order to gain admittance to the United States?

A: Is great country.

Q: And you swore you had no criminal convictions involving moral turpitude despite being jailed in Latvia and Estonia?

A: I was only Bar girl. No turpitude.

Q: You swore you would not work in the United States.

A: Nicolai Gorev told me to say that or they would not let me in.

Q: And you swore you would leave within ninety days?

A: That, too, he told me to say.

Q: You are a coconspirator with Mr. Gorev in a wire fraud and money laundering scheme. Probably racketeering, too.

A: I do not know your laws.

Q: After illegally entering the country and illegally working, you stole a watch from a customer at Club Anastasia.

A:
Nikogda!
Not true. The man gave me as gift.

Q: Nonetheless, the Miami Beach police arrested you and set this wheel in motion.

A: I feel like wheel is running over my feet.

Q: You are facing prison time and then deportation, but I am offering you immunity. I would like you to reconsider my proposition concerning Nicolai Gorev.

A: I am afraid. Will you give me agent to come along? Maybe someone who speaks Russian, and we will say he is my cousin.

Q: Spanish speaking, I’ve got. But not Russian. And it’s really not a good idea to take anyone along. It will raise Gorev’s suspicions.

A: I am not sure I can do this. I am not a professional actress.

Q: But Ms. Delova, that’s exactly what you are.

A: I do not understand.

Q: How much money do you make at Club Anastasia in one night?

A: Twenty percent of customer’s tab. On some nights, I make two or three thousand dollars.

Q: See what I mean?

A: But those were stupid Americans. Salesmen. Dentists. Ordinary men with credit cards.

Q: So?

A: Nicolai Gorev is a killer.