Murder One
Griff sat across the desk from Johnny in his downtown Newport office staring at the familiar mugs of Cincinnati celebrities shoulder-to-shoulder with the beaming lawyer. His eye was inexorably drawn to Lonnie Anderson. It almost seemed as if Bill Clinton, in the next frame over, couldn’t help but look at her, too.
Johnny sat with his chin on his palm, his elbow on the desk, staring at his office door, tapping a #2 pencil on a stack of briefs over and over and over again: Tap…Tap…Tap…Tap-Tap.
Griff looked at Johnny and cleared his throat, but he just kept staring…and tapping. So, Griff resumed his scan of the eight-by-tens on the wall: with Hubert Humphrey…with Jack Nicklaus…with Roy Rogers and Dale Evans…with Jerry Springer—in the Mayor’s office…
Maura came in, closed the door and locked it. She handed Johnny a manila file folder. “You need a new printer, Papa. Seriously. And maybe some Wi-Fi.”
Johnny waved her off as he read the papers in the folder.
“It shouldn’t be that hard to get something off this,” Maura waved her cell phone, “and onto a piece of paper. It just shouldn’t.”
Griff nodded, but watched Johnny read.
Finally, Johnny closed the file folder and locked eyes with Griff.
When he couldn’t take the silence any longer, Griff asked, “So…what are we doing here?”
Johnny sighed. He looked at Maura.
She shook her head.
Johnny looked back at Griff. “You might want to take a moment to recollect that you recently retained me as your attorney. Consideration was given and all—unless, of course, you no longer desire the services of the Leonard Group.”
“I need a lawyer?”
“I believe you, your own self, opined how everybody needs a lawyer, but most folks remain blissfully unawares of that particular fact.”
“I need a lawyer?”
“Generally, a charge of murder against the peace and dignity of the Commonwealth of Kentucky does present itself as an adequate occasion wherein legal representation is deemed most appropriate.”
“Me?”
Johnny held up the file folder. “One Eply, Westcott Sinclair, age thirty-four of Skokie, Illinois, recently relieved of his mortal coil as evidenced by his battered corpse filled with a number of nine-millimeter holes, found in Bellevue Beach Park—just this past week.”
“Up the street from Christopher’s Bed and Breakfast where I stayed.”
“That fact was, indeed, noted in the probable cause affidavit.”
“I tried to warn you,” Maura said. “You don't mess with the Man upstairs.”
“Have you ever had occasion to find yourself in Bellevue Beach Park?”
Griff nodded. “The day we went to Pine Hollow. I went for a walk after dinner.”
Johnny made a note on a legal pad. “I’d expect to see that stroll memorialized on surveillance camera footage, then.”
Griff sat back in his chair. He shook his head.
“Of course, I presume you are innocent of this heinous crime and wish to challenge these scurrilous charges in the most vigorous fashion possible.”
“Papa! Of course, he is innocent.”
“Of course.” Johnny smiled at Griff. “Though that particular fact is of little import to the task presently at hand.”
“This does not make sense. How?” Griff asked.
“Oh, we shall get to the bottom of that deep mystery in due time. It does give me pause—knowing our local constabulary resources as I do—how they were able to connect this particular set of dots in such an expeditious fashion.”
“Outside help?”
“I would certainly have no need of assuming a shocked expression on my face upon learning that was the case.”
“Can you excuse me for just one moment?”
Johnny held his hands out, palms up.
Griff stood up and stepped away, fishing his iPhone out of his pocket. He listened to the voice mail left by T-Rex:
“Griff—you fucking twat—what in the hell have you gotten yourself into—and she damn well better be worth it. Don’t have names, ranks or serial numbers yet, but there is vile swamp stink on your name. You definitely stepped on the wrong bureaucratic sperm squirt—whatever it is you’re doing. Selection never ends, so watch your fucking six. More when I got it.”
Griff sat back down across from Johnny. “Seems as though someone in DC isn't a big fan of my work.”
Johnny’s impassive expression did not change. He smiled. “And there you have it. Do I look surprised?”
“Can you handle this? And the Federales?”
“Son, in your present state of distress at recent unsettling news, you may not have noticed a distinct twinkle in my eye.”
“There’s no one better to have on your side,” Maura said.
Griff looked at Maura, then Johnny. “I presume this is going to cost more than twenty dollars.”
“You'll be good for it, I'm sure, so let's not fret about mere trivialities.”
“Okay. So, what do we do now?”
“Well…what might your feelings be about the color orange?” Johnny winked at Maura. “Sartorially speaking, that is.”
“Careful, though, stripes tend to make you look fat,” Maura said. “But it’s just for a week.”
“Ten days to be precise. We shall forego seeking bail and force their hand at the preliminary hearing.”
Griff sighed.
“Can you handle it, son?” Johnny asked softly.
Griff nodded, thinking how easy life had been for the past forty-eight hours—and how unpleasant it was soon to be. “You’re sure you can beat this at trial?”
“Mr. Crowe, there will be no trial. Do not let this suit and my fine silk tie, the diplomas on my wall or the company I keep fool you. I know crap when I smell it.” Johnny held up the copy of the arrest warrant. “And this here, my dear sir, is crap.”
“How can you be sure?” Griff asked.
“A good manager gives serious study not only to his own roster, but to the fellas in the other dugout. Our County Attorney may have always been a—let’s be kind and say—a mediocre practitioner of juris prudence, bless his heart, but he is a damn fine politician. And the particular minion he’s assigned to this case…” Johnny pointed to a name on the Complaint. “Well, let’s just say the boy’s about three At Bats from a one-way ticket down to Triple A ball. No doubt the DA’s olfactory senses are unimpaired, as well.”
“So, I guess I turn myself in, then.”
“What is your hurry, son?” Johnny laughed. “In spite of what you may have heard about our glorious southern hospitality, the food sucks, the beds are hard, and the amenities in jail are, well, lacking.”
“The ink isn’t even dry on the warrant,” Maura said. “And I’d think you might want some time to get your affairs in order.”
“Besides, you and I have some prep work to do. Maura, darlin’, how about we park him at Dewey’s for a day or two. He’s a nice enough fella—under that roughhewn exterior.”
Maura shook her head. “No, Papa. There’s a revolving door on his place. We shouldn’t take a chance.”
Johnny scowled at his granddaughter.
Maura suppressed a smile.
“Dang it all.” Johnny pointed at Griff. “You…you are a client. Remember that.”
“Come on, Griff. I’ll take you home.”
“No hanky-panky,” Johnny called after them as they left. “No hanky-panky—or I’ll let your flea-bit carcass rot in that damn jail.”
***~~~***