He proceeds to tell me about his drug dealing and prostitution activities. It's fairly small-time, but like Danny Rollins, his small territory has been bestowed upon him, and he pays a substantial portion of his earnings to his patrons. The days of Al Capone are over, but the mob influence, at least in this area, is surprisingly substantial.
Oscar adamantly refuses to talk about the mob people that he deals with. He pathetically considers himself 'connected,' even though the truth is that the only people below him on the mob food chain are the victims. I don't press him on it, since there is little possibility his connections had anything to do with his facing these charges.
I move the conversation to the specifics of the case. I don't want to ask too many questions at this point; I'll save that for when I know more about the police's evidence. I concentrate on the warehouse where the body was found.
'Of course my prints were there,' he admits. 'That's where I operate out of.'
He goes on to explain that because the warehouse was adjacent to the park, he would occasionally hide merchandise in there and have certain customers meet him inside when the police were in the area. He considered the warehouse his corporate headquarters.
And besides that, as he so eloquently puts it, 'Prints don't mean no damn shit anyway.'
'Write that line down. I'll want to use it in my closing argument.'
He doesn't respond; there may be no bigger waste of time than using sarcasm on someone who has absolutely no understanding of it. 'Now, this is important,' I continue. 'Someone called the police, a woman, and told them that you killed Dorsey. Do you have any idea who that could have been?'
'Shit no, man.'
'What about one of your girls on the street?'
He shakes his head vigorously. This he is sure of. 'No way. No fucking way. They know what would happen.'
Every time he opens his mouth I dislike him more. 'There's no one you can think of who might want to frame you?' I ask. 'No one who has it in for you?'
'I got some enemies, my competitors, you know? It's part of business.'
We clearly have a Macy's/Bloomingdale's situation here. 'Make a list of everyone who dislikes you,' I say.
He nods. 'Okay.'
'How many reams of paper will you need?'
'The guard'll get me paper.'
What I think, but don't say, is, 'Oscar, I'm insulting you. I'm your lawyer and I'm insulting you! Fire me!' Instead, I mentally vow to swear off sarcasm for the duration of this case. I'm not sure if I can do it; my addiction goes way back. I wonder if they make a sarcasm patch that I can wear to wean me off it.
For now I confirm that Oscar wants to plead not guilty, and I tell him that I'll see him again tomorrow at the initial court appearance.
I turn and leave. The only thing I've learned in this visit is that Oscar is a really easy guy to leave.
As I walk to my car, I reflect on how depressing this situation is. A lawyer-client relationship, particularly in a murder trial, is close and often intense. Unfortunately, I would rather have warts surgically implanted all over my body than be close and intense with Oscar Garcia. But he's been wrongly charged, and since I'm not willing to risk my legal career by breaking Stynes's privilege, the only way I can right that wrong is by defending him.
When I get in the car, I make a couple of phone calls to determine where my next stop should be. In that regard, I come up with two significant pieces of information. First, I learn that the dry cleaner closes at six. This is good news because I have only three suits and they've all been sitting there, no doubt hanging in plastic and feeling abandoned, for weeks. Getting there by six will be no problem, which means I won't have to wear sweatpants to the hearing tomorrow.
The next thing I find out is that the assistant DA assigned to the Dorsey case is Dylan Campbell. This takes me out of the good mood that the dry cleaner news had put me in. Dylan would have been my last choice as an adversary on this case, which may well be why they don't let the defense attorneys choose the prosecutor.
I know every assistant DA in the county; in fact, more than half had been chosen by my father when he ran the office. To generalize, they are tough, hard-nosed prosecutors whom I can't stand in a courtroom but like drinking beer with afterward.
Dylan Campbell does not fall into this category. While his colleagues and I will bend the legal rules and watch the other side bend them back, Dylan bends them until they break and then throws them in your face. He's smart but unpleasant, and I would much prefer to go up against dumb and affable.
I call Dylan, and he agrees to see me right away, which means he probably wants to make a deal. I find that plea bargains are most likely to be made either at the beginning of a case or just before trial. Early on, the accused is often scared and shaken, while the prosecutor is standing at the foot of the enormous mountain of work that preparing a case represents. It's a likely time for compromise.
Just before trial, the possibility of a bargain being struck again increases, mainly because both sides know that soon it is going to be out of their hands and into a jury's. That threat of imminent repudiation of one's position is a major motivating factor toward dealing.
When I reach Dylan's office, he catapults himself out of his chair and rushes over to greet me, hand extended. This uncharacteristic and transparent graciousness is another sign he wants to deal. 'Andy, good to see you. Good to see you. Here, sit down. Sit down.'
I'm not sure why he is saying everything twice, but it's probably to show me how sincere he is. 'Thanks, Dylan. Thanks, Dylan.'
I sit down, and Dylan's next act as the perfect host is to go to his little refrigerator and ask me what I would like to drink. He's something of a health nut, so it basically comes down to whether I want American, Swedish, or Belgian mineral water. I shrug, and wind up with Swedish.
He sits back behind his desk and smiles. 'I've got to ask you a question,' he says. 'Everybody in the office is wondering--I mean, no offense--but how in God's name did you wind up with a loser slimeball like Oscar Garcia? Did you lose a bet or something?'
'Oscar Garcia is godfather to my children.' I say this quietly, with as straight a face as I can manage, and I see a quick flash of fear in Dylan's eyes, as his mind processes the possibilities. It takes three or four long seconds for his look to switch to nervous relief, as he realizes it just couldn't be.
'Hey, buddy, you had me going there for a second. But only for a second.'
I grin. 'Can't fool you, you old rapscallion you.'
He's a little uncomfortable with this, so he decides to get back on firm ground, which unfortunately for me is his case. 'So I assume you're here to do a little business?' he asks.
'Well, I was hoping you could bring me up to date. I just officially took the case a few minutes ago.'
'You want me to do your homework for you?'
'You don't have to. I can just ask the judge for a delay.' A delay is something he most certainly does not want. The court system is like a conveyor belt in an assembly plant, and the prosecutor is the foreman, charged with keeping it moving. Delays are like coffee breaks: The belt stops and the system grinds to a halt.
Dylan pauses for a moment, considering his options. 'You looking to deal?'
I'm not, of course, but I don't want him to know that. 'I sometimes find it helpful to know what my client is up against before I advise him on what to do.'
He sighs; there's no way around this. 'Okay. I'll have the file copied and sent over to you with the police reports.'
'Good. I'd like it today. Can you also give me the shorthand version?' I ask.
'What do you know so far?'
'About the 911 call and the fingerprints at the warehouse. Unless that's all you have …'
'Come on, Andy, if that was all we had, your boy Oscar would be out in the park peddling dope, and you wouldn't be sitting here. Dorsey's gun was found in Garcia's house.'
I'm surprised by this, but only because I know Oscar is innocent. 'You think Garcia murdered Dorsey, then took his gun and left it in his house?' I ask, trying to exaggerate my incredulity at the stupidity of such a move.
He shrugs. 'You visited with Garcia, right?' he asks. 'You see any diplomas hanging in his cell?'
