I look at the place and then at Laurie, who has perfected the ability to read my thoughts. She can tell that I can't believe we've even come here.
“Open your mind,” she says. “Unclench your ass and open your mind.”
Laurie has mentioned that she knows Kevin quite well, but she hasn't provided any specifics. Actually, I think she knows him more than quite well, maybe much more than quite well. I've got a feeling she once may have known him in the biblical sense, and my suspicious mind concludes that is one of the reasons she recommended him. But I've agreed to give it a shot, so we go in.
The inside of the place looks like a Laundromat, which in itself is no major surprise, since that is what it is. There is only one patron in the place, a middle-aged woman who is talking to the proprietor, Kevin. He, to my immense relief, is five foot seven, thirty pounds overweight, and balding. He doesn't have a hunchback, and he doesn't drool when he talks, but his overall unattractiveness should be enough to keep my jealousy in check.
Kevin and the woman are having an animated discussion, which Laurie and I cannot hear from our vantage point, since the washers and dryers are making too much noise. The woman seems upset, and Kevin's gestures indicate he is trying to placate her. It doesn't seem to work, and she throws up her hands and leaves.
Kevin sees Laurie and waves us over. When we get there, he's still shaking his head over the encounter with the woman. Laurie gives him a big hug and kiss, causing me to briefly wonder if my initial jealous instincts had been right. Nah, she's three inches taller than he is. Can't be.
“Hey, Kev, meet Andy. Andy, Kevin.”
We shake hands and say how nice it is to meet each other. I ask him if the woman that just left is a tough client.
“They don't come any tougher,” he says.
Laurie asks, “What's the problem? Or is it privileged and you can't talk about it?”
“No, I'll tell you,” he says. “She put in seventy-five cents and her towels didn't get dry.”
We go to a coffee shop around the block to talk, and I describe the Miller case. Kevin has three pieces of pie and a bowl of fruit while I lay it out, and I have no doubt he is going to eat as long as I talk. Fortunately the case is not that complicated, or he would have to get his stomach pumped.
I ask him what he thinks and wait for his answer while he swallows. He tells me we are in a difficult position. My God, Clarence Darrow lives!
Laurie asks him if he'd be interested in coming on board, and he says, “No thanks. Been there, done that.”
I'm relieved, since I don't yet share Laurie's high opinion of this guy. But Laurie keeps pressing him, and he seems to be weakening, so I jump in with what I think is an obvious point. “No offense, I'm sure you're a dynamite lawyer, but you do run a Laundromat.”
Kevin nods and turns to Laurie. “See? This is a smart guy. He wants somebody who doesn't fluff and fold all day.”
We talk about it some more, and he actually starts to impress me with his take on the case and the law. Laurie uses her considerable powers of persuasion on him, and he finally and reluctantly agrees to join the team, but only in a very secondary role. He'll do the grunt work, filing motions and moving things along, but will not take an active courtroom role. This is fine with me, since I was not about to offer him one.
“I think we should discuss my fee,” he says.
“The sign says your advice is free,” I reply.
“My free advice is don't use too much detergent. My legal fee is one fifty an hour. You as rich as Laurie says you are?”
I glare a dagger at Laurie, who shrugs. “It slipped out,” she says.
I shake my head, disappointed at the injustice of it all. Why can't we rich people be treated as normal human beings? “Okay. One fifty an hour. But you pay for your own pie.”
“Done,” says Laurie. Then they shake hands on it. Then they hug on it. It's a beautiful moment. There isn't a dry eye in the room, unless you count both of mine.
We agree that Kevin will come to the office the next morning, and Laurie and I make arrangements to meet later to go to the scene of the crime. I head down to the courthouse to meet with Richard Wallace, which is not something I relish.
If you watched Geraldo or Larry King or any one of a hundred cable shows that covered the Simpson trial or the impeachment debacle, then you noticed that ninety-five percent of all the legal pundits they use are dubbed “former prosecutor.” It's sort of like being a baseball manager: Every day you're in the job you're one day closer to being fired. Except every day you're a prosecutor, you're one day closer to quitting. The overwhelming feeling in the profession is that “former” is the best kind of prosecutor to be.
The exception to this rule is Richard Wallace. He's been prosecuting cases for eighteen years, and if he has enough to drink he'll admit that he loves it. He's the number two man in the department, which is the highest nonelected position. That's exactly the way he wants it, since if he were to go any higher he'd have to trade in the courtroom for an executive throne.
From a defense attorney's standpoint, the good news about Wallace is that he doesn't bullshit; you basically know where he stands and why. The bad news about Wallace is he doesn't bullshit, which means you can't expose his bullshit and make him look bad.
My theory about prosecutors is that they are the dishwashers of the legal profession; their main goal is to clean their plates. The problem is that criminals keep dumping more and more food on those plates, and they never can get them clean. But they keep trying, and Wallace is no doubt hoping that I'll help him put the Willie Miller plate in the dishwasher.
We sit down at two-thirty, right on schedule, and by two-thirty-one he has finished chitchatting and made his offer. Willie can plead guilty to murder one and take life without the possibility of parole. “It's an excellent offer,” he says with a straight face.
“Wow!” I say. “Life in a shithole cage for the rest of his natural life. He'd have to be crazy not to go for it. Damn, I wish you'd offer it to me. I'd jump at it myself.”
“If he doesn't take it, you might as well tell him not to unpack his things. He'll be back on death row before he knows it.”
“He won't take it.”
Wallace shakes his head as if saddened by my response. “Andy, this trial has already taken place. You've read the transcript; it'll be like putting a tape in a VCR and replaying it.”
“You're not allowing for my brilliance.”
“Hatchet is not big on your kind of brilliance. He'll cut you up in little pieces and feed you to the bailiffs.”
I'm not in the mood to be lectured right now, even if every word he is saying is true. Especially because every word he is saying is true.
“So this is what you asked me to come down here for? Life without parole?”
“That's it. And we'll get killed in the press for that, but we'll have to deal with it.”
“You're a regular profile in courage.”
He smiles. “That's why I get paid the little bucks.”
“This time you're going to have to earn them,” I say. “Willie is going to pass on your offer.”
He's not surprised by my answer, but he's not pleased that he's still got this dirty plate. “Then I guess I'll see you in court, Counselor,” he shrugs.
I growl at him on the way out, as a way of starting the intimidation process, but he's already talking on the phone, so it doesn't seem to have much effect.
Since I have a few hours before meeting Laurie, I go out to the prison to get the conversation with Willie behind me. Behind us.
Willie has been moved off of death row and into maximum security. It is a subtle distinction; you get to trade tension and dread and the stench of death for the right to be surrounded by twice as many murderers and rapists as before. Willie is already a celebrity of sorts, since not too many people come back from the other side. It doesn't seem to have put him in a great mood.