One of the things that set Jaywalker apart from his col leagues was that he did a lot of his own investigation. He came by it naturally enough. Before he'd passed the bar and landed his first lawyering job with Legal Aid, he'd put in four years as an undercover agent with the DEA, the Drug Enforcement Administration. There they'd taught him how to bug a room, tap a phone, pick a lock, lift a print, tail a car, run a license plate and locate the subscriber of an unlisted phone number. He'd learned how to shoot a gun, too, and, for that matter, how to break a nose, crush a larynx and deliver a knee to the balls with astonishing ef ficiency, though those particular skills had pretty much atrophied over the years. Most of all, he'd learned how to pass, how to blend in. How to wear the clothes, walk the walk and talk the talk of the street like one who'd grown up on it. So once he'd made the move from apprehender to defender, whenever a case called for some investiga tion-and to Jaywalker's thinking, all cases called for in vestigation-he liked nothing better than to assign the task to himself.
There were times, however, when that didn't work. Chief among them was when it was reasonable to believe that somewhere down the line, Jaywalker the lawyer might have to call Jaywalker the investigator to testify at trial. Woody Allen had actually given it a pretty good try in Take the Money and Run, alternately posing questions from the lectern and then racing to the witness stand to answer them. But it was pulling stunts just like that that had landed Jaywalker in hot water with the disciplinary committee, and he knew this was a particularly inopportune time to stage a retrospective of his antics. He decided that the in vestigation needed at the moment in Samara's case might indeed become the subject of trial testimony. It was, there fore, time to call someone else.
Unlike a few big earners he knew, Jaywalker didn't have his own private in-house investigator. Instead he had to rely on a handful of independents, from whom he cherry-picked, depending on the particular circumstances of the case at hand. If he wanted a Spanish-speaking in vestigator, for example, he reached out to Esteban Morales. If the assignment was in Harlem or Bed-Stuy, he'd call on Leroy "Big Cat" Lyons. If accounting expertise was re quired, there was Morty Slutsky, a CPA. If a woman's touch was indicated, Maggie McGuire had spent eight years as a rape crisis counselor.
But Jaywalker passed over all those names now, settling instead on Nicolo LeGrosso. LeGrosso, better known as "Nicky Legs," was a retired NYPD detective who'd put in his papers the day he had his "25 and 50," twenty-five years on the job and fifty years on the planet. "The job's changed," he'd told Jaywalker more than once. "In the old days, nobody messed with the Man. They might not'a liked you, but they left you alone. Nowadays, you walk down the block, they'd just as soon put a bullet in your ass as say hello to you."
Even at fifty-five, LeGrosso still had cop written all over him. His hair had grayed over the years, and his gut had grown, but there was no mistaking the instant impression that beneath his sports jacket, which he continued to wear on the hottest days of July, was a snub-nosed Smith amp; Wesson. 38 detective special. None of the fancy new 14-round, 9 mm semiautomatic Glocks for Nicky Legs. If the revolver had been good enough for him and his brother, and his father before them, it was good enough for him still.
It was precisely because of LeGrosso's old-school looks and ways that Jaywalker reached out to him now. At this stage, Samara's case called for the reinterviewing of wit nesses at Barry Tannenbaum's building, specifically the old woman in the adjoining apartment, and the doorman who'd seen Samara come and go the evening of the murder. Wit nesses tended to get annoyed at having to repeat their stories over and over, Jaywalker knew. Still, they got less annoyed if the questioner presented himself as a father figure and one of the good guys. LeGrosso had a way of flashing his shield and announcing "Private detective" with so much emphasis on the second word that people tended to miss the private part altogether, even swore later on that they thought they'd been talking to a cop. And when called to testify in court, LeGrosso's demeanor was indistin guishable from that of real detectives, a quality that put him on equal footing with the prosecution's witnesses.
But there was even more. Twenty years on the job had taught LeGrosso how to deal with both government agen cies and private companies. If there were two things he was universally known for, at least in the universe of New York City law enforcement, they were foul cigars and an un canny ability to navigate the bowels of the most impene trable bureaucracy.
If it was Jaywalker's theory that someone other than Samara had killed Barry Tannenbaum-and for the mo ment that had to be his theory, for lack of another-he needed a list of likely suspects. Samara had hinted in her statement to the police that Barry had made enemies on the way to amassing his fortune. Jaywalker wanted to know who those enemies were and if any of their grudges might have survived to the time of Barry's death, might even have figured in it.
Did he hope to solve the crime that way? Hardly. He was still pretty certain that it had been Samara herself who'd plunged the knife into her husband's chest, and almost as certain that over time she'd get around to admitting it and explaining why.
But suppose she didn't.
Some defendants never learned to trust their lawyers with their guilt, fearful that as soon as their secret had been shared, the passion would go out of their lawyer as surely as air goes out of a punctured balloon. And who could really blame them for feeling that way, given the fact that, as a group, lawyers had managed to earn themselves the reputation of being little more than suits filled with hot air?
Jaywalker liked to think that he was different, and that one of the things that made him different was that his clients learned to trust that he would fight as hard for them if he knew they'd committed the crime as he would if he believed they hadn't. But Samara might turn out to be one of the few who clung to her claim of innocence to the end. Should that turn out to be the case, finding Barry's enemies might not solve the crime, but it might be enough to cast doubt on Samara's guilt. And in a system that required the prosecution to prove her guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, that could mean the ball game.
He dialed Nicky Legs's number.
That same night, Jaywalker got a phone call from Samara. So far as he knew, he was the only criminal defense lawyer on the face of the earth who regularly gave out his home number to his clients. But he regarded it as nothing more than a necessary corollary of his also being the only lawyer who didn't own a cell phone. He hated the things, hated everything about them, and swore he'd go to his grave before he'd buy one. So what were his clients supposed to do when they desperately needed to reach him once he'd left his office? Talk to his answering machine?
"You're there," she said.
"I'm here." It seemed obvious enough, but he let it go. "What time is it?" he asked instead. He'd fallen asleep on the sofa, no doubt aided by a tumbler half full of Kahlua.
"Five of ten," she said. "Listen, I need to see you. Can you have me brought over tomorrow for another visit?"
"I just saw you today," he reminded her. "For three hours. Besides, it's too late. I have to let them know by three o'clock."
"Shit," she said. "How about the day after?"
"Okay, sure."
They talked for another minute before he heard a C.O. telling her to wind it up. Evidently ten o'clock was cutoff time for the phones.
He got up from the sofa and tried to straighten up, but his back was having none of it; an ancient tennis injury saw to that. A lot of juniors on the tour got hurt, blowing out shoulders, elbows or knees on a fairly regular basis. Leave it to Jaywalker to have been different. In a moment of ex hilaration following a straight-set upset of a highly ranked opponent, he'd made the mistake of jumping over the net in celebration. Most of him had cleared it, but the heel of his right sneaker had caught the very top of the tape. The result was an extremely red face (both literally and figura tively), three cracked vertebrae, and the sudden end to a promising career.