Martin smiled. “Probably,” he said. “I’m a public defender.”
Rossiter frowned and picked up his flute of bock and drank off a half inch. “You’re right,” he said absently. “This stuff is nasty. I’ll take Budweiser any day.” Then he turned to Martin. “Do you know why this man is availing himself of the resources of the Public Defender’s Service in this matter?”
“For the usual reason, I suppose,” Martin said. “He needs representation and doesn’t have enough money to provide an attorney of his own.”
Rossiter laughed. “Wrong again, my friend! Smerdnakov is the head of the third-largest criminal syndicate in New York City, neck and neck with the Galliani family. He’s got a corporate headquarters in Brooklyn, another headquarters in Vladivostok, according to Interpol, and no one knows exactly how much he pulls in a year. The FBI estimates his profits run into the hundreds of millions. But the guy is one smart bastard. He’s got it rigged so on paper he makes nothing, he’s in debt. He’s using the PDS because he wants us to know he can shit on the law whenever he feels like it! Get what I’m saying now?”
Martin thought for a long second. “Not really,” he said.
Rossiter sighed. “How many witnesses testified to the grand jury that they saw this man strangle his girlfriend?”
“I don’t have access to that information,” Martin said quietly.
“Well, I’ll tell you, my friend! Nine witnesses saw him do it, and you know how many witnesses are going to come forward with their story when it comes time to testify in open court? None. Exactly zero. We won’t be able to find them! They’ll be dead or on permanent vacation in Mexico.”
“That’s bullshit,” Martin said. “You believe that, take them into protective custody.”
Rossiter threw a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. “Protective custody costs a lot of money, and it’s hard to arrange. There’s a cheaper way.”
“What’s that?” Martin said.
Rossiter straightened his tie and picked up his briefcase. “You’re a well-known bungler,” he said under his breath. “Do everyone a favor. Bungle this one.”
Martin watched him go. Rossiter walked quickly out through the etched glass door and had barely raised his hand when a cab was there as if it had been waiting just around the corner all the time. Marlin turned back to his ale, which he drank down quickly. The aftertaste was very similar to cigarette ash. To kill it, he ordered himself a double shot of Irish whisky and sipped slowly as the bar filled up with the after-work crowd, bright, young self-assured men and women in expensive clothes. How did they do it, go through the world with such certainty? He recognized a few faces from Judiciary Square but turned away before he caught their eye. A defense lawyer has got to believe in the innocence of his client, he wanted to say to them. No matter what.
Police cars sat double-parked down the center line along Indiana Avenue. A TV news crew was interviewing someone on the front steps. The satellite dish of its communications van reached sixty feet toward the sky, swaying in the wind at the end of its telescoping antenna like the nest of a large bird in a tall tree.
Alexei Smerdnakov slumped at the bare table in one of the consultation rooms at the Moultrie Center, hands in the pockets of his prison overalls, thinking about cunts. There were all kinds out there, cunts like flowers, cunts like a closed fist, cunts like a bunch of oily rags, cunts dry as dust. The plastic folding chair sagged under his weight. A buzzer sounded, the security door opened, and Martin stepped in, briefcase in hand. The Russian looked up, neither interested nor uninterested.
“Alexei, how are you doing?” Martin said cheerily. He put his briefcase on the table, withdrew his legal pad and two cheap plastic pens, and sat down. This was the first time he’d been in the same room with the man without a sheet of Plexiglas between them, and the experience wasn’t entirely comfortable. Smerdnakov’s physical presence was that much more intimidating up close. The muscles in his forearms bulged like Popeye’s; the tattoos looked deeply incised, black scars against bleached skin.
The Russian grinned, showing his giant’s teeth. “You ask if I am enjoying prison?” he said.
“Yes, something like that.” Martin swallowed nervously. He had the feeling he was in the presence of a wild bull. Show the wrong color and the bull would charge.
“In Siberia they put me in the hole for two weeks,” Smerdnakov said. “You ever been in the hole?”
Martin shook his head.
“It was freezing cold, and I was naked. Also, there were many” — he paused, searching for the word — “lice. You fall asleep, and they are covering you, sucking your blood. That was hard time. This is like a holiday.”
“Glad to hear you’re taking it so well,” Marlin said.
“But there is one thing I’d like you to do for me.” The Russian leaned forward, plastic creaking. He brought his huge face close and whispered the word gravely: “Cigarettes.”
“I’m sorry, my friend,” Martin said. “It’s against the law to smoke in public buildings in the District of Columbia. Plus, if the marshals catch me giving you a cigarette, my career is toast. You’re going to have to wait till you get out of here to light up.”
The Russian slammed his fist down on the table. Martin noticed there were Cyrillic letters tattooed on his knuckles. In an instant his face had become an evil mask.
“Get me a smoke, you crawling little bastard!”
Martin flinched, but he managed to hold the Russian’s eye. “Are you finished?” he said, his voice wavering a little. “Can we discuss your case now?”
Smerdnakov muttered something in his own language and sat back and crossed his arms. “Lawyers, they are the same assholes wherever you go,” he said, and he spit on the floor a half inch from Martin’s shoe.
Marlin took a breath and composed himself. “Let me explain something to you, Alexei,” he said. “I’ve already taken a load of crap on your behalf. There are people who really want to see you go down. I’m the only thing that stands between you and a murder rap.”
Smerdnakov appeared not to be paying attention. He studied the sliver of sky beyond the thick glass of the gun slit window.
“Alexei?”
The Russian looked back lazily.
“I want a confirmation one last time. I just want to make sure you’re still committed to pleading not guilty. Because it’s going to be a real fight, I want to warn you. And it’s risky. Right now we might be able to do a deal, go for murder two, even manslaughter—”
“I am an innocent man!” Smerdnakov roared. “No deals!”
“All right, fine...” Martin patted the air between them with his hand in a calming gesture. “I’m going to need some answers on a couple of important aspects of your story we haven’t covered yet. This is not going to be pleasant, but I think it’s necessary, okay?”
Smerdnakov studied his well-manicured fingernails and did not answer. The nail of the pinkie finger of his right hand was about an inch long. Martin wondered briefly how he managed to keep his nails so clean and unbroken; then he pushed the thought out of his mind. He took a deep breath.
“Before the murder you and Ms. Volovnaya were arguing. What was that about?”
“When she drinks vodka, my Katinka she acts like a whore,” Smerdnakov said. “So we are dancing together, and she is dancing like a whore for everyone to see her body. I tell her to stop, she says no...” He shrugged, and his voice trailed off.
Martin nodded and added a locomotive and a big-eyed fish to the doodles on his yellow pad. “Okay,” he said without looking up. “I want you to think about when you found her on the floor. Tell me exactly what happened.”
Smerdnakov thought for a minute. “I come out of the bathroom from taking a piss,” he said, “and it’s a long piss like a horse because I was drinking beer, not vodka, and I see quick enough that everyone is gone. Katinka and the men we came with, they are gone. I am very angry at first, and I think, The bitch! She has gone away with them! And then I look around and I see a body lying on the floor across the room and I know somehow it is her. I run over and take her in my arms, and she is stone dead. Someone has killed my Katinka while I was pissing!”