“Tomorrow, we’ll pay a visit to the State Attorney,” I told her. “Things are gonna start rolling.”
“You haven’t mentioned a fee. How much will this cost me?”
“Nothing. Not a dime. This one’s not about money.”
10 We, the Jury
The next morning, I was late for our meeting with State Attorney Castiel. Unavoidably detained, as they say. The jury had reached a verdict in Pepito Dominguez’s DUI trial. So now I stood in Judge Philbrick’s courtroom, arms folded across my chest, waiting for the clerk to announce the verdict.
A shitty little misdemeanor, the equivalent of powder-puff football in a tackle league. Still, my heart pounded.
Yeah, I know I said I didn’t care. But now, with seconds to go, I was the guy on trial. The jury was about to rule on me.
It’s always like this. I want to win.
And fast. Amy was waiting for me upstairs in the lobby of the State Attorney’s Office.
The gallery was empty, except for a couple of seniors who came in for the air-conditioning, and dozed off in the back row. CNN had chosen not to cover the trial, and legal scholars somehow never showed up.
Judge Philbrick asked the magic question: “Has the jury reached a verdict?”
The jury foreman gave the right answer: “We have, Your Honor.”
The foreman handed a slip of paper to the bailiff, who carried it to the judge, who glanced at it and passed it on to the female clerk, sitting directly in front of the bench.
“The clerk shall publish the verdict,” the judge said, in stentorian tones.
The clerk, a fifty-ish woman with eyeglasses slung around her neck on a chain of imitation pearls, squinted at the page, then read aloud: “We, the jury, find the defendant not guilty.”
She notched an eyebrow on the word “not.”
The judge nodded, the prosecutor scowled, and the jurors started gathering their things. Pepito Dominguez threw his arms around me. “Papa said you were the best! And you are. Thanks, man!”
I peeled Pepito’s hands off my shoulders. “You’re welcome. Tell your old man the bill is in the mail.”
“How ’bout I buy you a drink?”
“You shitting me?”
“Let’s hit Lario’s. Couple pitchers of margaritas. Place is full of models.”
I wanted to bitch-slap the kid. I also wanted to keep my Bar ticket, and the folks in Tallahassee have warned me, scolded me, and placed me on double-secret probation several times. “Didn’t you just get out of New Horizons?”
“My old man put me in, but I didn’t need no rehab.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have been upset. The little prick was grateful, and so many clients aren’t. If you win, they think, Hey, I’m innocent, why’d I need you? If you lose, they blame you.
I jabbed a finger into the kid’s bony chest. “I’m gonna be watching you. And if I see you within fifty yards of a bottle, I’m gonna kick your ass.”
Looking confused, Pepito tried to work up a cool retort, but his brain cells wouldn’t cooperate. Finally, he said, “I thought we could hang together, even though you’re, like, an old dude.”
“Did you hear me? I represented you because I like your father. But I don’t like you. Why don’t you get a job and stop sponging off your parents?”
“I wanted to talk to you about that, too.”
“What?”
“Dad said maybe you could hire me.”
“Doing what?”
“I’ve always thought it’d be cool to be a P.I.”
“Forget it. Tell your dad nothing doing.”
The kid’s old man, Pepe Dominguez, owned Blue Sky Bail Bonds. Pepe sent me clients, and unlike most bail bondsmen, never demanded kickbacks.
Now I turned to his punk-ass son. “You want to be a P.I. So you figure someone will just hand it to you? Ever think there might be some training involved? Some schooling? Some work? Your problem is, you have a great father but you’re a rotten kid.”
“I’m gonna tell Dad you dissed me.” A sissy little whine.
“Tell him there’s a limit to my friendship.”
It was not the last lie I was to tell that day.
11 Digging Up Buried Bones
State Attorney Alejandro Castiel was waiting in his office atop the Justice Building. Amy had dressed for the occasion, a white silk blouse with girly ruffles down the front and a form-fitting navy skirt that ended just above a pair of lovely knees. She looked both professional and demure.
I introduced her to Castiel, who flashed his politician’s smile as he steered us to comfy chairs, then leaned against the edge of his desk like a helpful doctor in a TV commercial.
He wore a dark Italian suit and was so deeply tanned he wouldn’t need makeup if Channel 4 wanted a quick quote on the latest battle for justice. His hair-flecks of gray at the temples-was swept straight back like a young Pat Riley of Miami Heat fame.
My goal was straightforward enough. Convince Castiel to open an investigation into the disappearance of Krista Larkin eighteen years ago. He could start by questioning Charles Ziegler, his party guests, and a biker named Snake if he could be found.
“You putting on weight, Jake?” It was Alex’s shoulder punch, a guy’s greeting.
“Don’t start,” I said.
“I’m gonna hang 30 on you this week.”
I sucked in my gut and said, “I still own you in the paint.”
He laughed and explained to Amy that we played against each other in Lawyers’ League basketball. She replied that I’d already told her, and isn’t it nice that boys can still be boys as they crept toward middle age?
Alex Castiel-“Alejandro” too long for a campaign poster-was a born politician. Miami knew his story well. The Castiels were Sephardic Jews who had emigrated from Spain to Cuba two centuries before Fidel Castro was born. So, Alejandro was a Jewbano. A crossover candidate, he spoke Spanish fluently and knew enough Yiddish jokes to make the yentas laugh. He won the election in a landslide of pastelitos and matzoh balls. Some people mentioned Castiel as a possible candidate for governor. I thought the guy could go even higher.
I liked him. Sounds strange, I know, coming from a defense lawyer who’s chop-blocked a few prosecutors and been sucker-punched by many others. But most are hardworking and underpaid and believe in what they’re doing. Alex was one of them.
“Ms. Larkin, Jake called me this morning,” Castiel said, “so I had the police report pulled out of storage and messengered over.” He opened a folder and grabbed a skinny document. “Let’s start with the witness who said Amy was headed to Charlie Ziegler’s house the night she went missing.”
Charlie. The use of the diminutive did not escape me.
“Sonia Majeski,” I said.
“What’s her credibility?”
“I believe her. Isn’t that good enough?”
He riffled through the report. “Exotic dancer. Arrested a couple times doing rub-and-tugs in a massage parlor.”
“What’s the relevance of that?” I asked.
He put down the file. “Ziegler told the cops Krista Larkin never showed up that night.”
“What about the other guests? How many people did the cops talk to?”
“Apparently, no one else.”
“Let me guess why. The party animals were prominent around town. Bankers, lawyers, power brokers. Maybe a police captain or two.”
“No way to tell from the report, but it’s a good guess.”
“So Ziegler offers a drink to a rookie cop, gives him a box of porn videos for the station, and the investigation is closed.”
Castiel ignored my shot at Miami’s semi-finest and turned to Amy. “I have to ask you some difficult questions, Ms. Larkin.”
“I’m a big girl,” she fired back.
“Your sister ran away from home several months earlier.”