Could have been. Maintaining my integrity by hedging.
"What's the precedent for this?" Socolow demanded.
"It's a simple application of the law," I said. "A woman is lawfully justified in using deadly force to resist a rape. Therefore, if Christina Bernhardt thought she was being raped at that moment, then-"
"Nonsense!" Socolow thundered. "That's not the intent of the statute." I listened a few minutes as Socolow railed against the newfangled theories under which the wily Jake Lassiter was trying to wrangle bond.
Finally, the judge cut him off with a wave of his cigar, an orchestra conductor with his baton. "Okay, that's enough from both of you. Save it for trial." He made a note on the jacket of the court file. "This court has never before granted bond in a first-degree murder case. However…"
I loved that however.
"… I find that the defendant has no prior criminal record or history of violence, and Mr. Lassiter raises a substantial defense, albeit a novel one. Motion for bond granted. Cash or surety in the amount of one million dollars."
A million bucks? Ouch! That's like no bond at all.
"Defendant is to surrender her passport and not leave the confines of Dade and Broward counties without notice to the prosecution and leave of the court."
Judge Stanger banged his gavel, stood up, and left by the rear door to his chambers. His cigar was lit before the door closed behind him.
Socolow gave me a wry smile and a raised eyebrow. "Flashbacks and blackouts, Jake? I can hardly wait."
Chrissy Bernhardt hugged me and gave me a peck on the cheek. "Am I getting out of jail?"
"Only if you have a guardian angel. A very rich guardian angel."
From the gallery, a man I didn't know approached the defense table. He was about forty, stocky, with black hair slicked straight back, a brown western-style suit with shoulder piping, a gold ring in one ear. And a checkbook in his hand.
I knew who he was as soon as he opened his mouth. The same gravelly rumble of a voice I'd heard that deadly night. And now that I studied him, Guy Bernhardt looked a lot like his father. Thin-lipped, thick-necked, small piggy eyes. Seeing Chrissy's half brother made me realize how lucky she was to carry her mother's genes or, as Granny would say, favor her mama.
Guy gave Chrissy a hug and a look of either genuine concern or rehearsed sincerity, I couldn't tell which. "I don't know why you did it, Sis," he said, "and I'm heartbroken to lose Pop. But I'll do whatever I can to help."
"Thank you, Guy," Chrissy said. "I'm sorry. I know you loved him. I'm sorry for you, but not for him."
Guy nodded as if he understood. "Anything you need, just ask. If I'm not in the office, have them track me down. All hell's broken loose with Pop gone; I'm trying to keep things together while we sort through all the companies. He let me run the day-to-day operations, but he kept a lot of the business in his head."
Chrissy hugged him and thanked him again. Then Guy Bernhardt took me by the arm and steered me away from the defense table. "The bond's no problem," he said in a whisper. "I'll pay the premium, put up some property as collateral if that's okay."
"It's fine. It's better than fine. There aren't too many defendants who can put up a million-dollar bond."
He signed his name to a blank check and handed it to me. "Anything I can do to help your case, you just ask."
"Sometime soon, I'm going to want to sit down with you, ask what you know about Chrissy and your father."
"It's hard for me to believe he molested her, if that's what you mean. I knew Pop better than anyone in the world, and… it's just not like him."
"I've been taking a cram course on the subject, and that's what everyone always says."
"Who's everyone?"
"Family members always say 'Not him' when a loved one is charged with incest. It's gotten to be a real cliche, like the neighbors saying the serial killer next door was real quiet and liked to keep to himself."
His look hardened. "Look, Lassiter, I'm on your side. I don't want Chrissy to go to prison. Sis is a delicate thing, has been since she was a little girl. Her mother spoiled her, so did Pop. I've been talking to Larry Schein, and my advice is, plead insanity, work out some deal for confinement and treatment. I'll pay the bills, the best damn place where they handle this sort of thing. I've already looked into it. There's a private hospital just outside Seattle that's supposed to be first rate. Expensive as hell, but so what?"
A ringing came from inside his coat pocket, and he pulled out a cellular phone, punched a button, and looked at me apologetically. After a couple of short "yeahs," he covered the phone with a meaty hand and said to me, "I gotta take this. Whenever you want, call me to set up a meeting. I mean it. Anything you need, just ask."
He headed back down the row of pews toward the door, speaking in hushed tones into the phone, and in a moment he was gone.
A female bailiff took Chrissy back into a holding cell where she'd wait until I could get the bond processed. So I stood there alone in the empty courtroom.
Thinking.
Twice he had said it: "Anything you need, just ask."
Here's what I wanted to ask: Why this talk about insanity? Dr. Schein hadn't said anything about it, at least not to me. Insanity means confinement and treatment. Maybe you get out, and maybe you're John Hinckley.
And Seattle? There are a lot of institutions that are first rate, to use Guy's term. So why choose the one that's farthest from home?
7
If you're a lawyer in a TV show, you handle only one case at a time, wrap it up by the last pitch for Pepto-Bismol, after which you're toting your briefcase down the courthouse steps with a beautiful client congratulating you for a wonderful job.
Real life is different.
After lunch, I avoided three phone calls from Roberto Condom, who was leaving messages with Cindy on how to plea-bargain his gator-poaching case, the gist being that he would give the Wildlife Commission fifty-seven live gator eggs to replace the grown animals he'd killed. Next time he called, I'd ask him just where he'd get the eggs without stealing them or hatching them himself.
I also spent an hour not answering my mail, not drafting pleadings, and not attending a partners' meeting intended to choose new artwork for the office. The choice was between Wins-low Homer sailboats and Pablo Picasso nightmares. I once suggested that the conference room be decorated with several Jacques Cousteau shots of sharks in a feeding frenzy. No one took me seriously, except the managing partner, who slashed my bonus in half at the annual meeting where we devour thirty-two-ounce porterhouse steaks and carve up the profits. Firm motto:
We eat what we kill. The spoils are divided (and eaten and drunk) at the Fiscal Year Banquet, as the firm brochure describes it. Pig Pool is a better description.
Cindy was away from her desk, so I inadvertently accepted a call from Silvio Sanchez at the jail. He'd taken a fall as a serial diner, eating in expensive restaurants, just to get room and board on the county when he couldn't pay the tab. Now he wanted to sue because they don't serve decaffeinated coffee behind bars. All the caffeine was keeping him up, and surely that must violate his constitutional right to a good night's sleep.
I interviewed a new client, a man wearing leather pants, loafers without socks, an open-necked silk shirt, and a gold chain. If they were doing a remake of Saturday Night Fever, maybe Morris Gold could get a part, even though he was fifty-three years old and his shiny black toupee was out of kilter.
After he plopped down in the client chair, he asked, "Can I show you my dick?"