Cynthia desperately needed to resolve her suspicions and she decided to do it personally. She had an office key made early one Saturday morning while Sal was sleeping. The very next time he called to say he’d be working late-the night he was with Brigitte Babcock-Cynthia hung up the phone, jumped in the car, and drove directly to his office on Webster Avenue about twenty minutes from the house. Slipping in very quietly, she tiptoed past the vacant secretary’s desk and cracked open the door of Sal’s inner sanctum. Her eyes scanned the room. She smelled the pot first. Then she saw the half-empty bottle of Chivas Regal on the corner of the desk and a woman all decked out in a beautiful black leather outfit-complete with boots, garter belt, stockings, and one of those designer whips with the little tassels on the end. She was standing over a nude male who had his head in the seat of an upholstered high-back chair and his buttocks raised toward the whip.
Although the man’s face was completely obscured, Cynthia instantly recognized her husband. She could no longer control herself. Bolting into the room, she pushed the surprised Brigitte out of the way, raised her right leg high in the air, swung it forward and kicked Sal right in the ass.
“Oooh!” Sal moaned. This infuriated Cynthia even more. She reared back and kicked him again.
“Oh my God!” Sal screamed in ecstasy. “Do it again, Brigitte.”
Cynthia stood there for a moment looking at him with disgust. Then she turned to Brigitte, who was cowering in a corner of the room.
“He’s all yours,” Cynthia said and headed for the door.
Somewhere in the recesses of his brain, beyond the booze and the dope, Sal heard his wife’s voice and-even though his mind fought against the reality of the circumstances-realized his predicament. But he didn’t move. He simply peered through his legs at Brigitte and noticed that his dick had gone limp.
When he returned home the next day with a story about how some client had slipped a tab of acid into his coffee, his wife and two kids were already gone. A few weeks later, Cynthia’s lawyer filed an emergency motion with the court, and Sal was tossed out of his two-story home. He still got to pay the mortgage, however, which meant that he could only afford to rent a cheap one-bedroom flat in a high-rise not far from the office. Part of Sal’s dream had slipped away forever.
Luckily for Sal and his clients, he was a somewhat better lawyer than he was a husband. He did mostly small-time stuff, but over the course of fifteen years he had handled several murder cases, all of them court-appointed except for the Russell O’Reilly case, the one that had finally brought him some notoriety. Russell O’Reilly was accused of the heinous murder of a blind girl. The case and Russell’s lawyer, Sal Paglia, were in the news every day for six months. In the end, Russell was exonerated because the DNA of the skin found under the blind girl’s nails-skin which came from her scratching her assailant-did not belong to Russell O’Reilly.
The O’Reilly case had brought Sal a steady stream of clients, but it was now three years old and had lost its legs. Sal was starting to have problems meeting his monthly obligations at the office. He had also taken up two new hobbies to fill the void caused by the absence of his wife and children-drinking and gambling-and he was doing a poor job controlling either of them. He was in to Beano Moffit, the local loan shark, for thirty thousand dollars when fortune seemed to smile on him once again.
A short, stocky Latin man with muscular forearms and calloused hands walked into his office early on a Wednesday morning.
“I’d like to see Mr. Paglia,” he told Sal’s secretary, Hazel.
“Do you have an appointment?” Hazel asked without looking away from the game of solitaire she was playing on her computer.
“No, I don’t,” the man replied. “I live a couple of blocks away. I thought I’d just stop in.”
“Sorry,” Hazel told him, her eyes still glued to the computer. “Mr. Paglia is a busy man. He can’t see you without an appointment.”
The man didn’t go quietly as most of them did. He stood his ground. “I’ve got cash,” he said, “and I’m willing to pay today. It’s a matter of life and death.”
Those words meant nothing to Hazel, who was unaware of the dismal financial status of her boss. But to Sal-who was sitting in his office with the door slightly ajar throwing paper airplanes at the trash can and wondering how he was going to pay the rent, make payroll, and keep his legs from getting broken-they sounded like sweet music.
“Send him in, Hazel,” Sal shouted.
“But he doesn’t have an appointment,” Hazel protested.
“Send him in,” Sal shouted back.
Hazel gave the man a dirty look but ushered him in to Sal’s office before returning to her game.
Sal came rushing from behind his desk, his right hand extended and a huge smile on his face. “Sal Paglia. Nice to meet you.”
The man shook his hand. “Luis Melendez,” he replied. “Nice to meet you too.” He did not smile.
Sal motioned Luis to one of his upholstered high-back chairs, the same one where, not many moons ago, his wife had caught him in a very awkward position. Luis sat down. His eyes roamed the room as Sal went back behind his desk.
Sal knew that his building was not much to look at from the outside and the neighborhood was, to put it kindly, a little seedy-a good place to find criminal clients but with few other redeeming values. His inner sanctum, however-the place where he coaxed the money from the clients, among other things-was top-shelf: plush maroon carpeting, rich mahogany paneling, a massive desk so large that Sal looked a little puny sitting behind it in his equally large and impressive burgundy leather lawyer chair.
“So what can I do for you?” Sal asked, changing his expression to one of pleasant, professional concern.
“My son is in jail and he’s been charged with murder.”
Dollar signs flashed in Sal’s eyes but he maintained his composure. “How long has he been there?”
“Not too long-a couple of months,” Luis replied. “He’s had several minor hearings about one thing or another. The public defender is representing him.”
“What’s your son’s name?”
“Benny Avrile.”
Sal noted that father and son did not have the same last name, but there was something else. He’d heard that name before, although he couldn’t remember where. Then it came to him. The case had been on the front page of all the papers and was still getting coverage months later. The trial for sure would be big news, maybe even international. Sal started to salivate.
Benny Avrile had killed some rich guy. What the hell was his name? Ah, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that little Benny’s father was sitting in front of him, offering the case up to him on a silver platter. The publicity alone would guarantee him another three years in the black, win or lose. He could pay off Beano, who was starting to pressure him a bit. Sal wanted to kiss Luis Melendez on the spot, but he had to play it close to the vest. After all, there was money to be had right now.
“Why are you coming to me?” Sal asked, the words slipping out of his mouth before he could catch them.
“I don’t want the public defender representing my son. He’s already had three different lawyers in two months. I’m afraid he’ll get assigned to somebody new on the day of trial who won’t know anything about his case. I remember you got a guy off a few years back-the one who was accused of killing the blind girl. Some people in the neighborhood say you’re pretty good, too.”
Sal wondered who had recommended him. Sometimes he paid people in the neighborhood to talk him up in criminal circles-maybe it was one of those guys. He’d find out soon enough. Somebody would be sniffing around, looking for a bonus.
But now it was time to talk about the money. “You know, my services don’t come cheap. It’s expensive to try a murder case. Very expensive.”