About an hour before I’d walked into the cells, Gerry Sinton would’ve been sitting in traffic on the Avenue of the Americas behind the wheel of a 1968 Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow. Dell told me that Sinton had a car collection that would make Jay Leno weep, and Sinton likes to drive. At one time he had employed a driver, like most other top attorneys, but laid him off when he bought the Roller six months ago.
As he drove, the car in front of him, an old Ford pickup, would begin to veer in and out of Gerry’s lane. Gerry would’ve seen the couple in that car arguing and he might’ve sounded his horn once or twice at the pickup and attempted to overtake them. The pickup driver, Arthur Podolske, wouldn’t have allowed that to happen. Arthur weighed around three hundred and seventy-five pounds. He was in his fifties, asthmatic, and ranked as one of the best precision drivers I’d ever worked with. That guy could stop a boat in a heartbeat. Arthur would change lanes to block Gerry’s overtaking maneuver and, at just the right moment, Arthur would hit the brakes hard at the very second that the light turned red. Gerry wouldn’t stand a chance of stopping. His classic would assuredly hit the back of the old pickup.
Gerry probably got out of his car shouting obscenities at Arthur. That wouldn’t last long. As soon as the driver’s door of the pickup opened and Arthur spilled his considerable ass onto the street, he would begin to feign a heart attack. Arthur’s wife, Eileen, makes Arthur look like a gymnast. I imagined Eileen had burst into hysterics, like she usually does, and flapped her huge arms at Gerry, and within seconds panic would overtake the whole situation. The big risk was that Gerry would use his cell to call his office and dispatch another lawyer to the courthouse to look after his client. I’d planned for that. Luckily, a passing NYPD patrol saw the whole accident, and while one patrolman radioed for a paramedic, the other would pull Gerry out of the Roller, plant him face-first, into the hood, cuff him, and then bundle him into the back of the patrol car to be dealt with after the paramedics arrived. All before Gerry could dial for help.
Not an easy setup by any means, but I had help from the kind of people who can arrange for a patrol car to follow a lawyer and detain him before he gets a chance to make a call on his cell phone, who can do just about anything they think necessary.
There was zero chance of Gerry making it to court that morning.
“Your client here speaks very highly of you,” said David, holding out a hand to Popo.
“I told him, my man Eddie is the best,” said Popo, through shuddering teeth. Withdrawal was beginning to hit him hard.
I held my gaze on David, like I was taking a real look at him for the first time. His face was dirty with tears, and his hair stuck to his forehead.
“Hey, I do know you. You’re—”
“Not here,” he said. His eyes flitted around the cage, and he gripped his knees to stop his hands from shaking. Even so, his feet jacked and, sensing my stare, he slid his feet underneath the bench.
I hadn’t anticipated David losing his footwear. Sometimes you’ve got to improvise. Some of the best and most convincing cons were successful because the hustler saw an opportunity to sell himself as an honest man. Getting the mark to trust you is the biggest hurdle, and when opportunities arise to cement your relationship with your target, you’ve got to take them. In the game we called these little plays “convincers” or “persuaders.” Those chances have to be grasped no matter what the odds. Losing his shoes counted as a golden opportunity for me to prove to David that I was on the level.
“Hey, what happened to your shoes?”
He hung his head and rubbed the back of his neck. His legs bounced nervously, and he wrung his hands. He looked at me before shooting a glance into the heart of the pen. I saw a huge black guy standing in the center of the floor, like he owned the place. He had a lot of space around him in a crowded cage full of dangerous men. This guy was at the top of the food chain. He wore a pair of new Nike training shoes. Red slip-ons. They were way too small for him and his heels spilled over onto the floor.
Ignoring David’s pleading hands and whispers to “please, leave it,” I headed for the center of the pen and held out my hand to the giant in front of me. He was six inches over my six feet, maybe a hundred pounds heavier than me, and all of that extra weight looked like well-compacted muscle. A tattoo of a black eagle spread its wings across his broad chest, and I saw gold shining in his gums.
The big guy just stared at me.
“I’m Eddie Flynn,” I said, leaving my hand out.
Nothing.
“Can’t help but notice you’re wearing my client’s shoes. I don’t think they fit you. I’d like ’em back.”
The big man’s eyes burned, and I could see the rest of the men in the cage nudging one another, ready to watch the shit go down. A heavy stillness settled over the pen. I could smell the man’s sweat. My hand remained extended, and my gaze never left his face.
Instead of taking my hand, the giant’s right arm shot out and he grabbed my tie. He was about to either pull me close and strangle me, or just threaten me. I didn’t give him the opportunity. Instead I gripped his right hand in mine and anchored it to my chest. My left arm shot toward the ceiling and took the big man’s elbow with it. I kept his wrist locked low, and his elbow struck the ten o’clock position with a loud crack from his shoulder. I watched the man’s expression change from anger, to amazement, then sheer, hot agony. Arms weren’t designed to fold like this.
“I push my arm two inches higher and your shoulder pops for keeps. There’s a lot of cartilage in there that will grind and snap. You’ll pass out, and when you wake up you’ll wish you were dead. You want to take off the shoes and play nice? Or you want a disability check on the first of every month?”
He nodded. I let go. The arm would be dead for a few hours, the nerves and muscle fibers shot to shit. I could tell he was thinking about jumping me.
I smiled.
He took off the shoes.
Growing up in the meanest boxing gym in the city had its advantages, even in legal practice.
I tossed the shoes to the mark. His mouth hung open. Neil broke the stunned silence. “You know, I really should get a new prescription for these glasses,” he said as he took off his spectacles and held them up to the light.
Neil continued. “You’re up, Eddie, and your little friend is up right after. I called Denise; no sign of Mr. Sinton.”
“Thanks, Neil,” I said.
I saw David lose his breath upon hearing that Gerry Sinton hadn’t made it to court, managing only short, noisy gasps that made his lips curl into his mouth as he struggled to inhale the stale air. Sweat dripped from the end of his nose and mingled with fresh tears on his face.
“Can you help me, please? I don’t know what’s happened to Gerry. He should be here, but look, it’s not like I’m going to get bail anyway. Gerry told me I didn’t stand a chance. It’s just I … I can’t go out there alone. Can you represent me? Just this one time? Please, I’m begging you.”
All that planning, all that preparation, everything I’d done that morning was designed to elicit that plea for help. When it came I didn’t say anything, because I knew if I said yes, there was no going back. I ran over all the possibilities in my mind one more time. I’d thought of little else for the last ten hours. Nothing had changed. There was no other choice, no other way out.
The alternative was to end up in a cage just like the one I was standing in, only I wouldn’t be there to visit a client—I would be there to visit my wife.
“Okay,” I said.
He breathed out slowly and smiled. I felt as if a weight had just slammed down on top of my shoulders and had begun to crush me.
I moved closer, kept my voice low.
“Let’s get the formalities out of the way. You’re David Child, the guy who founded Reeler?”
“Right,” he said.
“What’s Reeler?” said Popo.
“It’s like Twitter, or Facebook,” I said.
“What’s Twitter?” said Popo.
Ignoring him, I turned my attention to David. “If I’m going to represent you, I’ll need to know all about your case. It didn’t seem polite to ask at first, but I’d better know now. What’re you charged with?”
He wiped his face, then rubbed his sodden hands across his shirt. When he answered me, he sounded like a man who couldn’t believe what he was saying. It was as if the very act of speaking those words brought fresh realization. Like trying to walk on a bad knee, having forgotten the injury, the pain a hateful reminder of reality. Eventually, he managed to spit it out.
“Murder,” he said. “The charge is first-degree murder. I promise you, I didn’t kill her.”