Finnegan’s Pub on Fifty-sixth Street looked more like a flophouse for the blind than a public bar. A sign on the door read WE NEVER CLOSE.
I sat outside the bar in the driver’s seat of Holly’s Honda, the interior light shining on the new ballistics report from Dr. Peebles. From the unique markings and striations on the bullets found in the victim, he was able to confirm that those rounds could only have been fired from the gun found in David’s car. A slam dunk for the prosecution. Only one thing bothered me about the report: From Peebles’s examination of the weapon, he’d found traces of soil on the grip, and some of that soil had made its way into the tiny gap around the magazine, which slotted into the butt of the gun. I told myself I would think about it later, that it probably meant nothing, but all the same, little details like that tugged at my mind. I got out of the car and approached Finnegan’s.
The windows of the pub were taped up from the inside, and a second door, just beyond the entrance, was always closed and shrouded in thick green curtains that smelled of rotten beer and cigarettes. It was almost as if the patrons were vampires and if any natural light penetrated the bar at any moment, the entire clientele would burst into flames. It had a reputation as a rough joint and the owner, Paddy Joe, tolerated all kinds of customers. Ten years ago it would not have been unusual to find a gang of bikers in one corner, the 58s in the other corner, the Bloods playing pool, and half of the Sixteenth Precinct’s homicide squad hitting tequila slammers at the bar.
“Is Cooch in tonight?” I asked.
Paddy Joe looked up from the bar and for a moment I couldn’t take in his face because his head seemed to be as big as a silverback’s. A steel-wool beard hung over his T-shirt and the end of that beard met my eyeline at his stomach. Taking a step away from the bar, I was able to focus more clearly on his handsome blue eyes and row of capped teeth that looked like a stack of gold bars lying in the mouth of a dark cave.
“He’s in his spot. Good to see you, Eddie. You want a Coke or somethin’?”
When I was hitting the bottle, Paddy had made sure I got home from the bar in one piece—so he knew I’d kicked the booze, or was trying to.
“No, thanks. I’m good. Nice to see you, too, man.”
He held up his massive fist for a bump. I obliged him. It was like a marshmallow briefly touching a wrecking ball.
I turned away from the bar and walked past the broken jukebox and up a small flight of steps to a large booth in the far left-hand corner of the pub. There, surrounded by three drunk lawyers, Cooch was holding court.
“It’s like I always say, you never put your client on the stand. It’s suicide,” said Cooch. “Take Gerry Spence, yeah, best damn trial lawyer I ever saw. Spence practiced for fifty damn years, never lost a case and only once or twice put his client on the stand.”
Two of the male lawyers at Cooch’s table were around his age; the third was a young guy, blond, hanging on Cooch’s every word. I hung back to let Cooch finish. He was a little deaf and had problems with his volume. You could almost hear him in the street, he was so loud. Cooch also wore a hearing aid, which he tapped occasionally if he didn’t hear what you were saying. Like if you reminded him that it was his round at the bar.
“Spence used to say you told your client’s story through your cross-examination. Attack the prosecution case. Attack, attack, attack. But pick your battles…”
The two middle-aged lawyers had heard it all before—this was Cooch’s favorite topic—and they began their own conversation. Undeterred, Cooch switched his attention to the young lawyer.
“Criminal law is war, kid. But don’t fight the system; fight the evidence. It’s like … what’s his name … Irving Kanarek. He’d fight over a coin toss. You ever hear of him, kid?”
The young man shook his head.
“He was a defense attorney out of LA. He represented Charles Manson. Almost got him off, too. But Irving took it too far. He objected to everything. He made objection after objection after objection. He objected during direct, during opening speeches—everything. He sure pissed off the judge plenty. In the Manson trial Irving got himself sent to jail for contempt, twice. He was just a belligerent guy. Once, the prosecutor called a witness and asked him to state his name for the record. Old Irving was on his feet in the blink of an eye. ‘Objection, Your Honor. This answer is hearsay. The witness only knows his name because his mother told him!’”
The young lawyer laughed out of politeness, then stared into his beer.
Moving into the light, I nodded at Cooch.
“Now, here’s a real talent, kid. This here is Eddie Flynn. You see him in court, you watch him. Learn from him. He’s the next Gerry Spence,” said Cooch.
I exchanged greetings with the other lawyers, who shook hands with Cooch, made their excuses, and left. The young lawyer finished his Miller, thanked Cooch for the advice, and made his exit. I took a seat.
“Nice kid, highest score in the bar exam and top of his class at law school. A real prospect. Pity he doesn’t have the first freakin’ idea of how to be a lawyer, but he’ll learn. Like you did, Eddie.”
“You gave me your fair share of advice when I was his age. I was grateful; it helped.”
He waved a dismissive hand.
“What do I know?” he said.
“Look, I need a favor, Cooch.”
“Wha’? Didn’t catch that,” he said, and leaned toward me, tapping his hearing aid.
I whispered, “I’ll pay you ten grand for a day’s work in court tomorrow.”
“Ten large? Tomorrow? What’s the case?” He had little difficulty hearing that.
“Murder. It’s the prelim tomorrow. You’re second chair.”
Raising his hands, he looked at the patterns of nicotine staining on the ceiling, muttered something, and then returned his attention to me, waiting for the details.
Despite his advanced years, the seventy-year-old lawyer was still as sharp and as dedicated as any I’d ever met. Cooch took a real interest in his clients, getting to know them, getting to know their families, their bail bondsmen, their kids and pets. He survived on repeat business from a large group of clients, most of whom were related and who specialized in low-level organized crime and warehouse robbery. It had been close to a year since I’d last seen Cooch, and in that time he’d aged considerably. The skin around his throat now drooped and his shirt looked too big for him, his hair now almost completely white. The last strands of Just for Men were a fading memory, quickly evaporating with the spread from his powder-white roots.
“So? Come on, you gotta give me details. How am I gonna prepare when you don’t tell me anything about the case? You want me to take half the witnesses? What? Come on, what do you want me to do?”
One of the lawyers who’d sat with Cooch had left a finger of scotch in his glass and the melting ice cube had diluted it. I stared at the dark, amber liquid in the glass for a long second. I shouldn’t, I told myself, as I picked it up and swallowed the damn thing.
“Look, don’t worry about it,” I said.
“Come on, Eddie, that’s not fair. You must want me for a reason. So what do you want me to do tomorrow?”
“At the prelim? Absolutely nothing.”
“Wha’?”
“I don’t want you to do anything at the prelim. I need you for the grand jury,” I said, unable to fully restrain a smile.
“Hang on. I can’t do anything at a grand jury; I can’t cross-examine … You know this. It’s pointless even being there. You remember what Judge Sol Wachtler said when he was in the court of appeal?”
This was one of Cooch’s favorite lines. I knew it by heart, but I let him talk.
“He said, ‘A prosecutor could persuade a grand jury to indict a ham sandwich.’ Your client’s wasting his money; there’s nothing I can do there.”
“I didn’t ask you to say anything at the grand jury; you just have to show up.”
Cooch leaned back into the fake leather seats and let his mouth fall open as he thought this through.
After a few moments, he sat up and pointed a clubbed finger at me.
“You don’t want me to do anything at the prelim, but you need me to be there, right? And then you want me to go along to the grand jury with a surprise?”
“You got it.”
He shook his head and laughed. “Eddie, you’re one twisted genius, you know that?”