“We still have a lot of work ahead.” I said, opting for the humble voice of reason.
“Maybe,” said Paul. “After today, I’m not sure we put on a case at all.”
Inside, I was doing leaps. I felt my new position in the private sector greatly enhanced with today’s events. My secretary had pulled up early Internet accounts of the trial on his BlackBerry and the verdict, pardon the pun, had been a knockout for the defense. When we walked back into the firm tonight, we’d been greeted by other lawyers at the firm, who had been reading about it blow-by-blow online, with the customary mix of congratulation: sincerity blended with envy.
But all I wanted to do was go home and see my wife and daughter, Emily Jane. I threw my notepad on the conference table and reviewed my checklist, to make sure I wasn’t missing anything. My big cross-examination was over, the jury instructions were done, the post-trial motions as ready as they could be for now. But there was one thing left.
Ernesto Ramirez.
One of those things, not slipping through the cracks exactly but never making the cut as the top priority. He’d told me to go scratch my ass when I’d visited him at the YMCA-what was that, three months ago now? I told him I’d keep his information anonymous, and he’d had a ready answer: They’ll know.
Right. It was the night Emily was born. I’d driven straight home from the Y and taken Talia to Mercy General, where she spent eleven hours in labor before our little gift showed up, red-faced and fussy.
I was feeling a surge of momentum. Things had gone perfectly today. If I could just pull this one last rabbit out of the hat-
I meandered to the corner of the conference room and dialed him on my cell phone. The phone rang twice before he answered.
“Hello?”
“Ernesto? Jason Kolarich. The lawyer who-”
“Yes, Jason.” Curt and hostile.
“I’m out of time here, so I’ll be blunt-”
“I don’t have anything to say to you. You understand? Nothing.”
“Wait. Just-hang on. I can protect you. I can have the government protect you as a material wit-”
“The government. Yeah, the government. Man, you don’t get it.”
“Then help me get-”
“Listen to me. Listen. Don’t ever call me again. I got nothing to say.”
A loud click followed. I sighed and closed up the phone. I turned to find Riley, Lightner, and Hector Almundo staring at me.
“Ernesto Ramirez,” I explained.
“Ernesto-oh, Jesus, kid.” Lightner chuckled. “Dead. . end.” Hector looked up from his plate of chicken and rice that we’d catered in. He was looking better today than he had for a while. We’d taken blow after blow in the prosecution’s case-in-chief, but things had gone well today, and his expression seemed to reflect the turn of events. Hector generally liked to keep up a brave front. He was a stubbornly proud man who did not like to show weakness; it made our relationship with him difficult at times. He was quick to anger and seemed to hold grudges, which probably made him an effective politician. It also explained, in my mind, the reason for his divorce almost eight years ago, though Joel Lightner had favored another theory-that Hector’s true tastes didn’t run toward the female gender.
He had a good politician’s story. He’d grown up on mean streets and dropped out of high school but eventually returned and got a college and legal education to boot. He started at the bottom of city government but worked his way up quickly, having thrown in a few extracurricular hours on the mayor’s political campaign to win a few chits. He got fairly close to the mayor-as close as he could, probably more an alliance than friendship-and ultimately took a shot at the senate seat and won. He was a street fighter. He went after his opponents ferociously. He’d put Joey Espinoza’s head on a stick if he could. And yes, we figured he probably did engineer this extortion scheme with the Columbus Street Cannibals, though we thought the murder of Adalbert Wozniak was beyond even Hector’s capacity.
“Who’s Ernesto Ramirez?” Hector asked.
“Guy we met during the canvas,” said Lightner. “He runs a nonprofit called La Otra Familia or something. He was a mentor to Eddie Vargas. We asked him for information and he said he didn’t know nuthin-bout-nuthin. Like a hundred other people said. But this guy Ramirez, he must have scratched his cheek or averted his eyes or something when he answered, so young Jason here is convinced he holds information that could break the entire case wide open.”
Paul smirked. Lightner and Riley liked to point out my youthful vigor-read naivete-from time to time.
But I had built up some additional credibility after today. Hector looked at me quizzically.
“The guy’s a former Latin Lord and he’s still close to them,” I explained. “Whatever it is he knows-”
“If he knows anything,” Lightner interjected.
“Whatever he knows, he probably knows from the Lords,” I said. “I think maybe the Lords shot Wozniak, not the Cannibals. Now wouldn’t that be a nice thing to share with the jury.”
“The Lords? Why would they do that?” Hector asked. “It’s not their turf. It’s not even La Zona.”
“I don’t know why,” I said. “But Ernesto Ramirez does. I just know it.”
“And how many times has Ernesto Ramirez told you to go fuck yourself?” Lightner asked.
“Only twice,” I conceded, to the amusement of the other lawyers. “But I haven’t turned on the charm yet.”
7
I drove home, my eyelids heavy, exhausted from the comedown after an intense day but propped up on electricity. This had been probably the best day of my professional life. After today, I thought we had a great shot at an acquittal, which three months ago would have been unthinkable. It wasn’t lost on me what this could mean for my career, for my family. I’d never had money, and until a year ago served as a county prosecutor making shit for a salary. This case could make me. Driving home, I let it swim over me, ambition mixed with fantasy, fancy cars and a second home and an Ivy League education for Emily Jane, foreign things to me, all of them.
I found them both in the nursery when I came upstairs. We had done up one of our spare bedrooms into a nursery for a little girl, pinks and greens with bunny wallpaper. Talia was seated in the rocking chair that her mother had used for her. She had been breast-feeding Emily, and the little one seemed to have settled down for the moment. Talia managed a weak smile but didn’t speak, not wanting to wake the dozing munchkin.
“How’s she doing?” I asked.
Talia simply nodded. She looked beautiful and awful at the same time. The shape of her coal-black hair, which she had cropped in anticipation of Emily’s birth, still looked new to me, though tonight it was unwashed and flat against her head. Her eyes were puffy and lifeless. Maybe four hours, tops, of sleep over the last two days will do that.
“How are you doing?” I whispered.
“I’m fat, tired, and my nipples are killing me.”
“Other than that, I meant.”
“We’re still on for my parents tomorrow?”
“Sure, yeah.” Tomorrow-Friday night, we were heading out of town to see Talia’s parents, who lived ninety miles south. Talia’s mother had MS, and it was hard for them to make the trip up to the city.
Talia managed herself out of the chair with Emily cradled in her arms and began the transition. Emily let out a soft moan, and those large, expressive eyes opened. When she saw me, she grimaced in that unsubtle way that babies possess. Pure horror might have described it better. She wasn’t in favor of the transfer from Mommy to me.