23
“Jerod Romero, please,” Shelly said into the phone. She was in the law offices of Shaker, Riley amp; Flemming, in the office Paul Riley had generously donated to her. She had spread out her files, arranged her folders, set up a computer password, played with the Dictaphone on her desk, swiveled in her chair and looked out the window at the view of the elevated train and small glimpse of the river. It was an office for an associate, not a partner, but it was nicer than anything at the law school.
He came on the line a few moments later. “Jerod Romero.”
“Mr. Romero. Shelly Trotter.”
“I’m hearing interesting things, Shelly. A self-defense plea?”
“Just exercising our constitutional rights. Don’t worry, nary a word about drugs or dirty cops. So far.”
“Did you-”
“And by the way, Mr. Romero, I’m calling you from the law offices of Shaker, Riley and Flemming, where I’ll be working. You can call off your I.R.S. goons.”
Silence. She didn’t expect a response. “I’m not sure what you’re suggest-”
“I’m suggesting that if you think you can get me off this case, or coerce us into a plea, by going after CAP’s tax-exempt status, you are wrong. I’m not going anywhere and it’s time for put-up or shut-up.”
She detected an amused chuckle. “Sixty years is a great deal, Shelly.”
“Well, then, why don’t we get together and discuss it? You, me, and the county attorney’s office. Let’s all get in a room together and hammer this thing out.”
“We don’t work that way.”
“Let’s cut the crap,” she said. “The A.C.A., Dan Morphew? He offered life today.”
Romero cleared his throat.
“You haven’t said a single word to the county attorney,” she continued. “They don’t know anything about this sting. They don’t know about any deal for sixty years. So let’s do it this way. You have your reasons for not wanting to talk to them. I don’t care. Let’s just focus on the federal charges.”
Romero didn’t answer, which meant he was listening.
“Complete immunity,” she proposed. “Rip up the letter of cooperation. It’s meaningless now, anyway. You haven’t charged him yet. I want an agreement that you will not prosecute him at all, in exchange for his silence about the drug sting until this thing goes to trial. That gives you almost three months to wrap things up.”
“You’ve thought this through,” he said.
Paul Riley walked into the doorway and tapped lightly on the door. She nodded at him.
“That’s it, Mr. Romero. Take it or leave it. And nothing about cooperating or anything else. No conditions except that he doesn’t talk about the sting until trial.”
“Well, I can run this up-”
“Run it up your ass, for all I care,” she said. “You have until the end of the day tomorrow. I want a written agreement and all the discovery you have on Ray Miroballi by tomorrow. Or I hold a press conference.”
She hung up the phone and smiled at Paul.
He raised a finger to her, as if he had something important to say. “Middle-aged guy walks into a confessional,” he said. “He says, ‘Father, I have sinned.’ The priest says, ‘Tell me, my son.’ The guy says, ‘Father, I just spent the entire night with two gorgeous runway models I picked up at a bar. We did drugs all night and had the raunchiest sex I’ve ever had. We were doing things I’ve never even heard of.’ The priest tells him to do some Hail Marys and seek forgiveness from the Lord. The guy says, ‘Oh, Father, I’m not Catholic.’ The priest says, ‘Well, then why are you telling me all this?’ The guy says, ‘Are you kidding, Father? I’m telling everybody!’”
She smirked at him. “Very nice, Riley.”
“You looked like you could stand to smile.” He leaned against the door. “Putting the screws to the G, are you?”
“Something like that. Listen-thanks so much for this space.”
“You already thanked me.” He was wearing a charcoal suit with an expensive shirt, a light shade of red with a white collar and cuffs. If I were a client, she thought to herself, I’d feel at ease with this guy.
“You talk to Joel?” he asked.
“Put him to work right away.” Joel Lightner was an investigator whom Paul used, and whose services he’d offered gratis to Shelly. Paul had gone a long way to assuage his own guilt for not taking the case-or for trying to please Shelly. She didn’t know which one, but she could hardly say no under the circumstances. She had a client who needed a good investigator.
“Hm. Good.” He opened his arm. “We eat.”
Lunch was at a popular steakhouse, but Paul ordered fish and Shelly went with vegetables. It was more than she usually ate for lunch. She felt comfortable in the nice setting, the good company-yes, she was beginning to warm to this big-shot corporate lawyer-but somehow uneasy at the relaxed setting while something so urgent was at stake, while her son sat in a holding cell and watched his back in the jail yard. He was looking over his shoulder every moment of the day in a dreary, sunless hole, while she was ordering marinated vegetables at an upscale eatery.
“You’re going to miss the law school,” he said. “The children’s project.”
“I am.”
“It moves you. Your work.”
She nodded. “School is everything to a kid. Especially the ones I’m helping.”
“Knowledge is power, right?”
She rearranged the lettuce in her salad. “It’s more than knowing who the tenth president was,” she said. “It’s about socialization. It’s about skill-building. It’s about nutrition.”
“Nutrition. Really.”
“Oh, sure. Most of the city schools serve breakfast as well as lunch now. Sometimes it’s all these kids eat during a day.”
Paul took a second look at the breadstick he was about to break in half.
“You know what day of the school week has the highest student attendance?” she asked him. “Every week, every year?”
Paul shook his head.
“Monday,” she said. “Because a lot of the kids are hungry.”
Paul’s eyebrows raised. “I guess I didn’t know that.”
“I don’t expect everyone I keep in school to become doctors or lawyers, or go to college, or even graduate high school,” she said. “But they learn things in school-or at least, it’s the only chance they’ll have to learn things. History and science, fine. But I’m talking about things like-I know an English teacher who spends a few days each year on telephone skills. A lot of these kids don’t have phones at home at all. They don’t know basic conversational skills on the telephone. How are they going to hold any kind of a decent job?”
He raised his hands. “You’ve taught me something.”
She sighed. She could really get going when prompted. And it was preferable to revisiting the events of the last week. “I’m preaching,” she apologized.
“Not at all, no.” Paul wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Give me an update on the case.”
Well, my house was burglarized, my client and I were physically threatened, I got kicked out of my law school, they’re seeking the death penalty against my client, I have the distinct feeling that Alex and Ronnie are playing games with me.
“Just getting started,” she said.
Oh, and it turns out my client is the son I gave up for adoption.
“I think I’ve cleaned up the federal mess. I think they’ll let him walk if we keep quiet about the undercover operation until trial.”
“Good. Great. What else?”
She felt a bit like one of Paul’s associates reporting to the senior partner. “They gave their 311 notice today.”