CHAPTER 10

“They’re trying to push you out,” Jake says, leaning against one of the colossal conference room windows.

I sigh. “It’s bullshit. A diversion. Maddox is going to try to busy us with issues that have no relevance to this case. He’s an L.A. lawyer; I know his game.”

Jake shakes his head and takes a seat across from me. “It’s not the motion to remove you that I’m talking about, son.”

I knew this was coming. I avert my eyes, toss a glance at Ryan Flanagan who is staring down at his rough dock-builder hands, obviously preoccupied.

“Everything okay Flan?” I say. “I’m going to need your full attention on this one.”

“I’m fine,” he says, quickly masking his New Orleans frown. Divorced with two daughters who despise him, and an injury that’s left him sucking down narcotic painkillers nine, ten times a day, Flan’s probably not the best investigator in the islands. But I like him. And that goes a long way.

“Good,” I say, “then let’s mov—”

“Just that Casey showed up today.”

As my mind works to process this, somehow Jake—brain three parts whiskey—picks up on it right away. “Your oldest daughter? What’s she doing in town?”

Far as I know, Flan hasn’t seen her, hasn’t even spoken to her in years.

“She had a falling out with Lucifer,” Flan says.

That’s an easier one. Lucifer (née Victoria) is Flan’s hellish ex-wife on the mainland.

“Casey’s staying at a hostel in Waikiki right now,” Flan adds, “but she’s asked to move in with me.”

I don’t know what to say. I’m no good at this, this hand-holding, this comforting others during times of crisis, especially when it pertains to family. Seems the only time I’m able to aid anyone is after they’ve been arrested. Out of nowhere I find myself saying, “I’ve got to do something about my Jeep.”

Jake folds his arms, asks me what I mean.

“The color,” I say. “Too conspicuous. Led Tatupu right to our client.”

When Jeep introduced an electric-orange Wrangler, I snatched one up, certain they were going to be the next big thing. Months later, I couldn’t spot another one on the road, and Jeep discontinued the color the following season. Thus, I have what is perhaps the only bright orange Wrangler that Jeep ever made. In my line of work, it’s not always a shining idea to stand out in a crowd.

“Our client…” Jake says. “Son, that’s something we have to—”

I deflect Jake’s latest objection by turning my head toward our investigator and saying, “What do you think about the Jeep, Flan?”

“Wanna sell it?” he says. “Casey’s already hinting that she’s going to need a car here on the island.”

I shake my head. “I’m going to have it painted. White, like every other vehicle in the state of Hawaii.”

I pick up the conference room phone and dial Hoshi’s extension, ask her to check the Paradise Yellow Pages for a decent detailer.

“How will I know if they’re any good?” Hoshi says.

“Call each of them,” I tell her. “Whoever quotes the highest price, we go with them.”

Jake and Flan crease their brows.

“You get what you pay for,” I say.

Jake plants his palms on the conference room table and leans forward, raising his voice for, perhaps, only the second or third time since I’ve known him. “Which leads back to the issue of our representation of Erin Simms.”

All right. There’s no ducking this any longer. I bow my head, let Jake have his say.

“When I said earlier that the prosecution was trying to push you out, son, I wasn’t referring to Maddox’s bullshit motion to have you relieved. I was referring to the stunt Maddox pulled with respect to bail. That girl wants out of jail, and hell, I don’t blame her. Her parents want her out, and I don’t blame them. But we both know—and, apparently, so does the prosecution—that Erin’s parents have only six hundred grand to put up, whether it’s for bail or attorneys’ fees. They can’t pay both. And until you have a conversation with the three of them, I don’t think you should be referring to Erin Simms as a client of this firm, or putting much of the firm’s energy and resources into her case.”

“If we walk out on her,” I say calmly, “she’s going to end up with the dregs of the Hawaii Criminal Bar. Someone like Mickey Fallon, or Russ Dracano, for hell’s sake. That’s precisely what the prosecution wants—some lawyer they can roll over without so much as an objection at trial. We can’t let that happen.”

“We don’t have much of a choice,” Jake says.

I take a deep breath and swallow hard. “Yes. We. Do.”

The conference room falls silent. I’ve made my decision and now I’m ready to go to bat for it. Ready to defy my better judgments, to fly in the face of everything the great Milt Cashman taught me back in New York. Ready to tear up my partnership agreement with my friend Jake Harper and work out of my six-room Ko Olina villa if I have to. Ready. Able. And willing.

“We can accept her bail assignment,” I say.

Jake nearly falls over. “Bail assignment?”

Yup. Bail assignment. Dirty words in our business. Just a filthy piece of paper signed and notarized, granting us ownership of the amount of bail put up, if and when it is ordered returned to the defendant by the Court. Meaning if and when there is a final disposition in the case. If and when the defendant has made all her court appearances, has been acquitted or tried, found guilty or not guilty, been remanded to prison or released unto the world.

In the meantime, so much could go wrong. A mistrial. An appeal that goes on for years while bail is continued. Or worst of all, an escape. In which case, the bail money is held indefinitely.

Jake’s not pulling any punches. “Are you outta your fucking mind, son?”

In fact, I have been meaning to see a shrink. But for now I keep that tidbit between myself and the other voices in my head.

Jake throws his hands in the air. “Not-Guilty Milty would have the State revoke your law license if he heard this.”

True enough. It’s the first of Cashman’s Ten Commandments: Though shalt not take a case without being paid up front.

See, not only is there a chance that we’d never see the money; there is an assurance that we wouldn’t see a dime at least through the conclusion of her case. A minimum of a year in a matter like this. Meaning we’d work for twelve straight months while receiving zilch, zero as salary, while putting up expenses for experts and trial exhibits, not to mention our own already hefty overhead, out of our own pockets.

“Keep in mind, she already tried to run once, son!”

There’s that, of course. And I’m no goddamn Dog the Bounty Hunter.

“And you’re no goddamn Dog the Bounty Hunter,” Flan adds.

I push my chair out and stand. “I’ve made my decision, gentlemen. Now you’ve got to choose. You’re either with me, or you’re with the terrorists.”