“That’s it. We’re fucked.”
Casey Raife tossed an envelope onto the folding table Mick Ward used as a desk, then leaned back against the copy machine, arms folded.
Ward looked up at her as he opened the envelope. “What is it?”
“Read it.”
Ward pulled out three stapled sheets of paper. As a former defense attorney, he’d seen enough legal documents to be able to skim the important points without having to read every word. It was a letter and supporting affidavit from the DA’s office, stating that they had exhaustively searched all evidence collected in the case of Oregon vs. Harding, and they were unable to find any security camera video from the night of January 24th. Therefore, the DA stood by his original position that Ms. Raife’s client had stolen the security DVD when he robbed the Precision Castparts facility on that night, to remove any evidence that he was at the scene.
“It’s bullshit,” Ward said.
“And the jury will swallow it and think they’re eating chocolate.” Casey ran a hand through her sandy blond hair. “Mick, it’s Tuesday. we go to trial next week. We’ve got nothing. It’s time to think about a plea.”
Ward shook his head. “Richard won’t take a plea. He didn’t do it.”
“We’ve got to get him to reconsider. The State’s got an eyewitness who says he saw Richard commit the crime, and a defendant with two prior convictions for armed robbery. All we’ve got is our guy saying it wasn’t him. What’s the over-under on how long before the jury comes back with a guilty verdict? Five minutes?”
Ward felt his anger rising. “There’s a ten-year repeat offender minimum sentence if we lose at trial,” he said. “The DA isn’t going to move far off that even if we plead.”
“What can I tell you, Mick? You know how the system works. Good people get shitty results. We get up in the morning and try to help the next guy.”
Ward threw the papers down on his desk. One of Casey’s paralegals came into the copy room carrying a stack of files. She took one look at the expression on Ward’s face and left.
“Richard didn’t fucking do it,” he said, jabbing a finger at Casey. “He’s a good kid who did some dumb things. He’s held down a job for the past couple of years. He’s got a kid, for fuck’s sake.”
“So what?” Casey replied. “People don’t forgive and the cops don’t forget.”
“Doesn’t make it right,” Ward said. Dealing with this sort of injustice had almost driven him mad when he was an attorney. Most of his colleagues could stay dispassionate about their cases, but not him. He’d been raised with a strong sense of right and wrong, and seeing people get screwed by the system set his insides on fire. He fought it for years, mostly with ever-growing doses of booze and pills. But the bad cases kept pushing him, and eventually one tipped him over the edge. He’d been disbarred, and had nearly gone to jail himself.
Now he was trying to start over, working as a part-time investigator for Casey. He’d done a couple of odd jobs on small cases, but the Harding case was his first big one. Even though it had been a long time, he could feel the familiar tension tugging at his guts. He knew it would get him in trouble again, but he couldn’t walk away, no matter how hard he tried.
Ward picked up the letter and waved it at her. “You know they’ve got the DVD. They won’t give it to us because Richard isn’t on it.”
Casey shook her head. “I don’t agree. I think the DA’s right. Whoever robbed Precision Castparts was smart enough to take the DVD out of the security system. You went to the evidence room yourself. It isn’t there.”
Ward was clutching at straws, and he knew it. He’d spent the best part of a day at the Portland Police evidence facility in the Northwest Industrial district. There were over a hundred DVDs covering the three months either side of the crime, each neatly labeled with a date and time, but nothing for January 24th. He’d gone through every box. The police evidence tech monitoring his visit had grown increasingly angry as Mick emptied more boxes onto the table. When Mick said he wanted to watch each of the DVDs to see if any had been mislabeled, she told him to leave.
“Something still doesn’t add up here,” he said, but the energy had gone from his voice.
Casey put a hand on his shoulder. “Look, it’s after six. Go home. We’ll talk to Richard tomorrow.”
* * *
Ward finished up some paperwork and left. He thought about going home, but he decided on Holman’s instead. He stepped in out of the rain and hung his dripping jacket on the rack by the door. Holman’s was busy for a Tuesday, but he found a seat at the bar. The rain had been coming down steadily since before Christmas, and people came to Holman’s to take refuge. It was one of Portland’s oldest bars, and so far it had survived the wave of gentrification sweeping the city. All dark wood, red leather, and faded carpet, it was as comfortable as an old pair of sneakers. After a session here, you still went home smelling of smoke, even though the smoking ban had been in place for years. Ward had been coming here often since his wife left him.
He ordered a beer and made small talk with the barman, a young born-again Christian with straggly hair and neck tattoos. Jeremy was a good kid. Some days, Jeremy would semi-seriously try to get Ward to come to church with him. Ward wasn’t in the mood tonight, so he was glad when Jeremy just served his beer and talked basketball.
As he nursed his drink, Ward turned Richard Harding’s case over in his head, looking for an opening. There was no way Richard committed the crime. He’d worked too hard to get his life back on track to throw it away for an easy score. For the past couple of years, he’d held down a job driving forklifts at a warehouse in Clackamas. The pay was okay; enough to keep a roof over his head, and to let Richard spoil his two-year-old daughter when she stayed with him every other weekend.
But Casey was right. Eyewitnesses were like gold to a prosecutor. Juries loved them, even though eyewitness testimony was notoriously unreliable. When a witness took the stand, swore on a bible, and pointed at the guy who did it, the trial was as good as over. Unless Ward could stop that from happening, Richard was going down.
Two more beers didn’t get Ward any closer to cracking the case. He took out his phone and called Tony da Costa.
“Tony, it’s Mick. You busy?”
“Not really.”
“Can you come to Holman’s? I’ve got a case going to trial next week and my client’s in deep shit. I could use your help.”
“Sure, no problem. I’ll be there soon.”
“Thanks.”
Ward hung up. He ordered another beer, and a burger to soak up the booze. Tony was an old friend, a long-time private investigator who had worked some cases for Ward back when Ward was still an attorney. When Ward hit the skids, Tony stood by him, unlike a lot of people. Tony had problems of his own now, and he and Ward helped each other out whenever they could.
Tony arrived as Ward was finishing the last of his burger. As usual, he was dressed immaculately; bright red shirt, crisply pressed pants, and polished slip-on loafers. He was about five ten, thin as a rake, and he moved like a whippet. He claimed he’d been a boxer as a kid in Mexico. He didn’t look big enough to Ward, but he was quick, and his nose looked like it had been broken more than once.
Ward wiped his hands on his jeans and hugged his old friend. The embrace almost swallowed Tony whole. Ward was six three and two forty, and prior to working for Casey he’d spent two years doing heavy lifting in a streetcar factory.
Tony took a deep breath. “Easy, buddy.”
Ward smiled and let him go. “Sorry. Long day.”
Tony smoothed out his shirt, sat down next to Ward, and ordered a Martini. “So, tell me about this case.”
“Two guys robbed Precision Castparts a couple of months back,” Ward said “Made off with a half million dollars’ worth of high-end electronics. Our guy didn’t do it, but the cops have a witness who says that he did.”
“Alibi?”
“None. Home alone.”
Tony shook his head ruefully. “Figures. I’m guessing he’s got priors?”
“Yeah, a couple. Armed robbery. But nothing like this. Cash drawers at a couple of Korean delis. He did two years, kept his head down. Got out five years ago and he’s been clean since.”
“You sure he didn’t do it?”
Ward took a drink of beer and nodded. “Whoever robbed Precision Castparts was after specific high-tech manufacturing gear. They knew what they were looking for. Richard wouldn’t know a computer if you hit him over the head with it.”
Tony considered the story for a moment. “Who’s the witness?”
“Security guard. Says some guy held him at gunpoint while Richard scooped up the gear.”
“There’s no sign of the other guy?”
“No.”
“And whoever did it also took the security video?”
“That’s the DA’s story, and he’s sticking to it.”
“Not good, amigo.” Tony sipped his Martini, then popped the olive into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “What’s the deal with this security guard? Why is he putting your guy in the frame?”
“We don’t know for sure, but we have a good guess,” Ward said. “Richard did time with his brother back in the day. They were cellmates for a while, didn’t get along.”
“That’s not a strong motive for perjury. Did you check him out?”
“We ran a deep background on him. He’s clean.”
“No, I mean did you check him out? Go to his house, go to his work, see if there’s anything unusual going on?”
Ward felt his face get warm as he realized his mistake. Since he became an investigator, Tony had been showing him the ropes. He appreciated the lesson, but hated the fact that he needed it.
“No,” he said. He was mad at himself, but his mind was already headed in a different direction. Witnesses lied on the stand for three reasons. The strongest was fear. Next was to avoid incriminating themselves, and last was the old favorite, money. Ward knew that he and Casey had made a big error by not finding out which it was in this case.
* * *
Late the next afternoon, Ward hurried up the stairs to the Multnomah County Detention Center. Casey stood waiting for him by the door, wearing a dark gray pant suit, a leather briefcase tucked under her arm. She held her straight, sandy blond hair back with her free hand, to prevent the cold wind from blowing it across her face.
“Did you get anything?” she said.
“His house is a shithole,” Ward replied. “Other than that, no.”
In a last-ditch attempt to fix his mistake, Ward had spent the day sat in his car outside the security guard’s house, watching and hoping to find something useful. Earlier in the investigation, Ward had pulled an online assessment of his home’s value. He’d been surprised by how low the number was, given that the duplex was built in the nineties and in a decent neighborhood. Now he knew why. The lawn was dead in spots, and the fence was missing pickets. The gutter had started to come loose over the garage. Whatever else he did, the security guard wasn’t into home maintenance.
Unfortunately, that was all he found. No one had come or gone the whole time he was there. Instead he’d spent the day fighting a growing sense that he was at a railway station, standing on the platform and staring at a departing train.
Casey sighed. “Well, at least we know he didn’t get rich any time soon. He’s not screwing Richard for money.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
They entered through the Detention Center’s tall double doors, passed through the metal detectors, and reported to the desk sergeant. He confirmed their appointment and buzzed them through the double security doors. They took the elevator to the fifth floor, where another officer checked their name on a clipboard and showed them into an interview room.
The room was narrow, hemmed in on both sides by drab olive walls. At the end opposite the entrance, two plastic chairs sat in front of a bare metal desk. Phone handles hung on hooks on each wall, and beyond the desk two inches of bulletproof glass separated them from the inmate’s side of the room.
Richard Harding sat on the other side of the glass, pale blue jail overalls hanging loosely on his hunched frame. He was a tall man, and thin, with long, athletic arms. But sitting there, eyes downcast, he looked shrunken, like a child’s toy left out in the rain.
He didn’t look up when they sat down, but he did pick up the phone. Ward and Casey did the same.
“Hello Richard,” Casey said. “How are they treating you?”
“Same as always,” Harding replied. “What’s the plan for the trial next week?”
Casey pulled a legal pad out of her briefcase. “We need to talk about a plea agreement. We’ve done our best, but we haven’t been able to come up with any new evidence in your favor. If you go to trial, you don’t stand much of a chance.”
“And if I plead, I have no chance.”
“It’s still the better option. I might be able to talk the DA down to five years. If you lose at trial, the judge has no choice but to impose a ten year mandatory minimum sentence, and he might go higher.”
“Tanya came to see me yesterday,” he replied. “She told me that if I go to jail, she’s taking Bella and moving back to live with her parents in Wisconsin. I won’t see my daughter again. Maybe ever.”
Casey kept trying to persuade Harding to take a plea, but Ward stopped listening. He’d lost his own son to leukemia when he was five years old. He knew the pain, the loss, the dread that Harding must be feeling. It sucked the life out of you, and no matter how much time passed, you never got it back.
“Richard – ” Casey said, but Harding cut her off.
“I don’t care,” he snapped. “You sit there and say you did your best. Fuck your best. You get to go home tonight. If I go to jail, I lose my daughter. No plea. We go to trial.”
Harding dropped the phone, stood up, and banged on the metal door behind him. He kept his back to Ward and Casey until the guard came and led him away.
* * *
“I’m telling you Tony, he just got up and walked out on us. And I don’t blame him.”
Ward drained the last of his beer and waved the empty glass at Jeremy, who poured him another. They were at Holman’s again, in the same seats at the bar.
“I know what that means to you,” Tony replied, “but there’s nothing you can do.”
“Maybe if I’d gotten off my fat ass and checked this guard out sooner, we’d have something.”
“No one works a perfect case. There’s always something you wish you did differently. You know that.”
Ward leaned his elbows on the bar and buried his face in his hands. “When he told us about his daughter, all I could think was that’s on me.”
“Mick, it’s late. Go easy on yourself.”
Ward thought about what Tony said. Suddenly he sat up straight. He looked at his watch and gulped down his beer.
“Drink up,” he said. “The security guard works graveyards. Eleven to seven. If we hurry, we can get down there before he starts.”
They took Tony’s car, a meticulously clean white Honda Prelude. Ward serviced the Prelude for Tony, doing his oil changes and fixing things when they went wrong, which was almost never. Ward enjoyed working on cars, and he liked being able to save his friend a few bucks.
“Which facility?” Tony said as he got in the car. Precision Castparts had several factories scattered through the industrial wasteland south of Portland.
“The Titanium components factory off of Johnson Creek.”
“Okay, I know it.”
Tony pulled out and headed south, the Prelude’s headlights drilling tunnels of white light through the rain as they hissed along the soaking streets. Traffic was light this late on a Wednesday night. Tony took Highway 99 south, the Willamette River a canyon of darkness off to their right, blending into broad, squat warehouses and strip lighting as they headed inland into the McLoughlin Industrial District. Ward filled Tony in on more details of the case as they drove.
They made it to Precision Castparts just before eleven. The facility took up an entire block, a brown two-story office building on the left connected to a windowless gray factory. The parking lot in front of the office building was empty except for an old Chevy Blazer. There was a strip club across the street, so Tony pulled into its lot and parked facing Precision Castparts. He shut off the car and killed the lights.
Tony pointed at the glove compartment. “Hand me the binoculars, would you?”
Ward passed the binoculars to Tony, then settled into his seat.
Tony pointed at the Blazer. “Do you think that’s our guy?”
Ward looked at his watch. “Doubt it. It’s ten till. If I worked security on graveyards, I wouldn’t be in a hurry to get to work.”
Tony nodded. “You’ve got a point.”
They waited in silence. Fifteen minutes later, a pickup truck turned into the Precision Castparts lot and parked behind a row of low trees. A man got out and hurried towards the entrance, his jacket raised over his head to ward off the rain.
“Give me the binoculars a second,” Ward said.
Tony handed them to him. Ward focused them on the new arrival. He was short, with receding hair and a prominent beer belly straining the buttons of his drab green uniform shirt. Ward thought back to the pictures in the case file.
“That’s him,” he said.
As he approached the door, a similarly-dressed man came out. They stood facing each other, illuminated by the single light in the awning over the entrance doors. The man leaving appeared to be berating his colleague.
After a brief discussion, the departing guard shook his head, got in the Blazer, and drove off. The arriving guard went inside.
“Looks like someone’s not happy with our guy for being late,” Ward said. He gave the binoculars back to Tony. “You see anything interesting?”
“Not really. Shall we head back?”
Ward thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “But take a turn through the parking lot. I want to get a closer look at that pickup.”
Tony drove them through the Precision Castparts parking lot, slowing as they passed the security guard’s truck. It was a new silver Ford F350 Dual Cab, with the temporary license document still taped inside the window.
“Holy shit,” Tony said. “That thing’s got to be worth seventy-five grand. How much do security guards make?”
Ward felt a cold certainty hardening in his stomach. “Not that kind of money. Not even close.”
* * *
They drove back the way they had come. The rain came down harder. There were no street lights along Johnson Creek boulevard, so Ward felt like they were driving into the mouth of a cave. His mind raced as he tried to figure out what to do with this new information.
“So it was about money after all,” Tony said. “Do you think he was in on the job?”
“If he wasn’t, you can bet his brother was,” Ward said, scratching the stubble on his cheek. “Either way, someone paid him to look the other way while they cleaned the place out.”
“But why frame your guy? Why not just say he didn’t see anything?”
“The cops know he would have seen whoever did it. I’m guessing they decided to kill two birds with one stone. Create a believable story, and screw Richard over at the same time.”
“What are you going to do?” Tony said.
“I don’t know.” Ward was furious with himself for not knowing about the new truck sooner. “I’d love to run down the financial trail. If we could nail him on cross-examination, throw his sudden windfall in the jury’s face, it would wreck his credibility. But with the trial starting Monday, there’s not enough time.”
“Can’t you use it anyway?” Tony said. “Have Casey ask him how he got his shiny new pickup so soon after the crime?”
“Yeah, but I’m sure he’s got a story. Wife came into money, a small lottery win, that kind of thing. We need time to chase those threads, so we can call him on his bullshit.”
“Can you get the trial delayed?”
“Not this close to the start. Judge would never go for it. Court dockets are overflowing, and it’s too late to bring another case forward to fill the slot.”
Tony tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove. “It’s better than nothing, right? Maybe he’ll get flustered when Casey asks him about it.”
“It’s not enough,” Ward said. He shook his head. “If he testifies, Richard goes down. So that’s not gonna happen.”
Tony looked over at him, wide-eyed. “Mick, no. Don’t do something stupid.”
Ward ignored him. He took out his phone and called Casey’s office number, knowing she wouldn’t be there, and left a message.
“Casey, it’s Mick. Listen, I need to you to postpone the meeting with the DA tomorrow. I’m working on something. Give me a day. If nothing comes of it, we can talk to him about a plea.”
He hung up and put his phone away.
“This is crazy,” Tony said. “Why are you sticking your neck out for this kid?”
Ward stared at the rain streaking down the window as he considered his answer. He’d heard stories like Richard’s a hundred times before. Drunk and abusive father. Kicked out of high school at fifteen, in jail before he turned nineteen. But somehow, despite jail being nothing more than crime school, Richard had gone straight when he got out. Didn’t drink or do drugs, made every child support payment on time. Ward had been late on his alimony twice this year alone. Ward use to think he felt sorry for Richard. But the truth was he admired him.
“Because no one else ever did,” he said.
Tony shook his head, but didn’t say anything.
They drove back to Ward’s place in silence. When they arrived, Ward got out of the car and leaned back in.
“Thanks, Tony,” he said. “I owe you one.”
“You know it,” Tony replied. “Now shut the door. You’re getting rain in my car.”
Ward shut the door and watched Tony drive off. He stood there for a moment, looking at his old red brick apartment building. He thought about going inside. It was almost midnight, and he wanted to get in out of the rain. But Holman’s was just around the corner, and it would be open for another couple of hours. He started walking.
* * *
The next afternoon, Ward drove down to Felony Flats, the locals’ name for the rundown Southeast Portland neighborhood known for its high crime rate, especially methamphetamine-related offenses. It was also home to at least three motorcycle clubs classified as outlaw gangs by the Oregon Department of Justice. Sonny Gradzinski, the man Ward was going to see, founded the Speed Brothers, the largest and most notorious of those gangs, back in the late Seventies.
Ward drove down Foster and turned onto 62nd Avenue. Most of the houses were in a state of disrepair, and Gradzinski’s house fit the neighborhood perfectly. The paint had been light blue at some point, but it had long since faded to gray. One of the front windows had been broken and boarded up. The narrow porch had an old couch on one end, its fabric ruined by years of rain and mold. A large black pit bull dozed on the porch. The dog stood up when Ward approached, growling and straining at the chain leash holding it back.
Sonny Gradzinski pushed the screen door open and came outside.
“Shut up, Mutley,” he said. The dog sat down and looked up at him, its tail wagging nervously.
Gradzinski stood on the porch, hands on hips. He had thinning gray hair and a white handlebar mustache. A leather biker vest, black T shirt, and faded blue jeans hung loosely on his wiry frame.
“Mick Ward. Can’t say I was expecting you.”
“You’re looking good, Sonny.”
Gradzinski snorted. “Yeah, right. I’m looking old.”
“You mind if I come in?” Ward said. “I need to talk to you.”
“Sure.”
Ward followed Gradzinski into the house, being careful to give the dog a wide berth. Inside, the house was much like the exterior. The green hall carpet was worn through to the thread in several places, and there was a fist-sized hole in the plaster near the door. The floor creaked underfoot. Ward had to turn sideways to squeeze past the two immaculate Harley Davidson motorcycles parked in the hall.
“I see your priorities haven’t changed,” he said, as they entered the kitchen.
“Never will,” Gradzinski replied. “You want a beer?”
“Always.”
Gradzinski grabbed two beers from the fridge and handed one to Ward. He sat at the kitchen table and gestured for Ward to do the same.
“I hear you’re not a lawyer anymore,” he said.
Ward took a drink of his beer, then picked at its label. “Long story. I’m still in the game, though.”
“That what you came here for?”
Ward nodded. “You remember you said you owed me a favor?”
“Anything, any time. That’s what I said,” Gradzinski replied. “I meant it.”
Ward had represented Gradzinski’s son, Sonny Junior, ten years ago, after a fight with a rival gang went wrong. Four guys jumped Junior and a friend. They were in trouble until Junior landed a big right hook. The guy went down, hit his head on the pavement, and didn’t get up again. The other three fled.
Cops don’t like biker gangs, and their default position when someone gets killed is an aggravated murder charge. Junior had been facing life in prison at best, and the DA was making noises about the death penalty. Junior was willing to plead to manslaughter, but the DA wouldn’t budge.
Ward called his bluff and took the case to trial. He knew the State didn’t have a witness – no one from either gang would talk to the cops. At the trial, Ward kept hammering at the lack of evidence, and eventually he got an increasingly flustered lead detective to contradict himself on cross-examination. When the judge ordered a recess, the DA practically begged Ward to take a voluntary manslaughter plea. Ward thought about taking it to the jury and going for acquittal, but he couldn’t gamble with Junior’s life. He countered with involuntary manslaughter, and the DA accepted it gladly. With time served and good behavior, Junior was out six months later.
When the judge dismissed the jury, the DA took off like a greyhound. Ward took his time gathering his things. He thought he was the last man in the courtroom, but Gradzinski had waited back too. He hugged Ward, fought back tears, and made his promise.
Ward considered Gradzinski as he gathered his thoughts. The old biker’s arms were still muscular and well-defined, but his skin had taken on the crinkled look of age. His eyes were still bright, though, and his menacing gaze made Ward just as uncomfortable now as it had ten years ago.
“I don’t like doing this, Sonny,” he said, “but I really need your help.”
“What kind of trouble are you in?”
“It’s not me,” Ward said.
He told Gradzinski the whole story: about how Richard had been framed, why he couldn’t let that happen, and what he intended to do about it. Gradzinski sat and listened, pausing only to grab them another beer. When Ward was done, Gradzinski sat back, folded his arms, and let out a deep sigh.
“Whoa,” he said, eyebrows raised. “You’re taking a big risk. Are you sure you want to do it?”
“I’ll understand if you say no.”
Gradzinski looked affronted. “I made you a promise and I meant it. I’m thinking of you. Why do you need to be involved?”
Ward had been asking himself the same question. Now the answer came to him. “Because I fucked up. If I’d done my job, Richard wouldn’t be in this mess. I need to fix it.”
Gradzinski finished his beer and pointed the empty bottle at Ward. “Okay. You better be careful with my bike, though.”
* * *
Ward sat astride Sonny Gradzinski’s Harley in the strip club parking lot across from Precision Castparts, trying not to think of all the things that could go wrong. He shivered. It was a cold, clear moonlit night, and all he had on over his T shirt was Sonny’s leather biker vest. It was almost eleven. The security guard would be arriving for work soon. Next to Ward, Sonny Junior sat on his Harley. He was taller than Ward, and easily fifty pounds heavier. His giant frame made the Harley look like a bicycle.
Junior caught Ward looking at him.
“Are you sure we don’t have time to check out the girls?” he said, flicking a glance at the neon sign over his shoulder.
Ward was about to reply when the guard’s pickup pulled into the Precision Castparts lot.
“That’s him,” Ward said, “Let’s go.”
They fired up their bikes and rode across the street, the staccato roar of their engines hammering against the night sky. Ward pulled up right in front of the guard’s truck, and Junior parked behind it.
The security guard got out, and Ward stood in his path.
“Nice ride,” Ward said, his voice cold and level.
“Who the fuck are you?” the guard replied. He had his hands on his hips, but Ward saw uncertainty in his eyes.
Ward nodded to Junior, who pulled an aluminum baseball bat from the back of his bike and shattered one of the truck’s taillights with a powerful swing.
The guard spun around. “What the hell?”
Junior swung again, smashing the other taillight with a blow so powerful it rocked the truck on its suspension.
“Who are you guys?” the guard stammered. “What is this?”
“See this?” Ward said, tapping the Speed Brothers patch on the front of Sonny’s jacket. “Richard Harding is one of us.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about! Who is Richard Harding?”
Junior walked around to the front of the truck and destroyed a headlight with another brutal swing. The guard winced as glass rained down around his feet.
“You know damn well who he is,” Ward said, and the look on the guard’s face told him he was right. Suddenly his anger boiled over. This fat piece of shit sold out a good man for a goddamn pickup truck. Without looking away from the guard, he held out his hand to Junior, who gave him the baseball bat. Ward grabbed the bat by both ends and rammed it into the guard’s throat, pinning him against the truck.
“Richard is one of us,” Ward said through gritted teeth. “If you think you can sell him out for a bag of silver, you’ve made a big mistake.”
The guard tried to push the bat away, but Ward leaned in harder. The guard hissed as he struggled for breath, his face deep red in the moonlight.
“You fuck with one of us,” Ward said, “and you fuck with all of us.”
Junior stepped in close behind Ward. The guard looked up at him, naked terror in his bulging eyes.
“And we won’t be alone,” Ward said. “If you take the stand, I’ll make sure everyone in this fucking town knows you’re a snitch. Are we clear?”
The guard nodded furiously.
Ward lowered the bat, and the guard collapsed to his knees, gasping for air. Ward weighed the bat in his hand, fighting the temptation to crush the guard’s skull with it. One swing. That’s all it would take.
He took a deep breath, then tossed the bat back to Junior. They got on their bikes and rode off.
* * *
Friday morning, Ward came to the office deliberately late. He made it to his desk without being seen. He hadn’t been able to sleep the night before, despite several stiff drinks at Homan’s. Had what he’d done helped Richard, or just made things worse? He’d spent the night lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, wondering if he’d made the second biggest mistake of his life.
He killed a couple of hours working through pretrial paperwork on Richard’s case. It was routine stuff he’d done a hundred times before, putting exhibits in the trial binder and preparing evidentiary memos, but it was a good way to distract himself while he waited for the call he knew was coming. It came at noon, a text from Casey summoning him to her office.
Ward walked down the hall to Casey’s office and stood in the doorway. Casey sat behind her large L-shaped mahogany desk, which was almost entirely covered by neatly-arranged piles of paperwork and case files. A computer monitor and a phone were barely visible amongst the stacks.
Casey pointed at one of the chairs opposite her desk. “Shut the door and sit down.”
Ward did so.
Casey folded her arms and looked at him without speaking, her face neutral. Ward met her gaze and tried to mirror her expression. Eventually Casey spoke.
“Are you having fun, Mick?” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Being back in the saddle. It’s been a while since you’ve done legal work.”
“It has.”
“Well? Are you enjoying it?” Casey said.
What a question. Ward loved it for giving him the old thrill of the hunt. He hated it for reminding him of what he’d thrown away. He couldn’t stand the tension of not knowing how Richard’s case would play out.
He shrugged. “Pays the bills.”
Casey raised her eyebrows, challenging him to say more. He didn’t.
Casey smiled and grabbed the notepad from next to her phone.
“I’ve just had an interesting conversation with the DA,” she said, tapping her pen on the notepad. “Apparently their star witness against Richard Harding has decided he didn’t get a good look at who robbed the place after all. They’re dropping the charges. Needless to say, the DA isn’t happy.”
Ward needed all his reserves of self-control to remain passive. His crazy play had worked. Richard wouldn’t be going to jail after all. Ward felt like all the tension had been sucked out of him in an instant. He bit his lip to keep from shouting out loud.
“That’s good news,” he said eventually.
“That message you left me the other night,” Casey said. “About working on something for Richard. Do I want to know what it was?”
Ward considered what he’d done, and the trouble it would cause both himself and Casey if word ever got out. He shook his head.
“No, you don’t.”
Casey pursed her lips and considered him carefully.
“Let’s be very clear on this, Mick,” she said. “Even though you’re not a lawyer anymore, the rules of ethics apply by extension when you’re working for me. You know that, right?”
Ward nodded. “Of course.”
“Then I’m only going to tell you this once. I don’t give a shit what kind of trouble you get yourself into. But if you ever do anything that puts my law license in jeopardy, you’ll be out on your ass before you can blink.”
“Understood,” Ward said, doing his best to keep his face expressionless.
“Good.”
Casey turned to her computer and started typing. Ward realized he’d been dismissed and stood up to leave. He’d almost reached the door when Casey spoke again.
“Mick?”
“Yeah?”
“Richard is being released from custody at four,” she said. “I’m going to pick him up. Do you want to come with me?”
Biography
I am an attorney with experience in criminal defense, which inspired me to write these stories. My short fiction has been published in Sacramento News and Review, and my poetry was published in the anthology East of the Sunrise.
