move forward. Defendin’ a crack dealer ain’t gonna help.”
“You’re missing the point, Mark. I’m not defending him for selling crack. I’m defending him for murder.”
“What’s the difference?”
Steve took a breath. “There’s a big difference if he didn’t do it. Even the scum of the earth’s entitled to a fair trial. If he didn’t kill his uncle, he shouldn’t go to jail for murder just because he happens to deal crack.”
Taylor held up his hands. “Yeah, sure. He’s presumed innocent until proven guilty. He’s entitled to a fair trial. He has the right to a lawyer. There’s just no reason that lawyer has to be you.”
Steve looked at him. He chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Taylor said.
“Nothing. I just said almost the same thing to someone just the other day.”
“So?”
“So,” Steve said, “I told the kid I’m gonna represent him, I’m gonna represent him. So he held out on me and he’s a less than model citizen. What else is new? In an ideal world, you’d be able to like your clients. In real life it doesn’t happen that way. Because if they were such good people to begin with, they probably wouldn’t
“So you’re gonna represent him?”
“Sure I’m gonna represent him. And I’m gonna get him off, too. If that makes me look bad to some people, well that’s just tough.”
“You really think you can get him off?” Tracy put in.
“I don’t see why not. Cops don’t have that much of a case. They got the will for motivation, that’s the biggie. And the fact that he was seen with his uncle. For one thing, that was much earlier in the afternoon. For another thing, the witness is totally unreliable.
“And then there’s the cause of death. I’d hate to be in the prosecutor’s shoes trying to argue that one. He waits until he falls asleep and then douses him with gasoline and sets him on fire? In a subway station no less?” Steve shook his head. “No, what they got so far won’t do it. It’s not enough that he was seen with his uncle. They need someone who saw him set the body on fire. Or at least someone saw him buy the gasoline. Have they got anything like that?”
Taylor shook his head. “Not so far. If they do, they’re not letting it out.”
The phone rang. Tracy Garvin reached out, picked it up. “Steve Winslow’s office … Uh huh. Just a minute.” She handed the phone to Mark Taylor. “It’s for you.”
Taylor took the phone, said, “Mark Taylor here.” He listened for a couple of minutes, punctuating the conversation with dull, toneless ‘uh huhs,’ and hung up the phone with a look on his face that would have done credit to a mortician.
“Well?” Steve said.
Taylor took a breath. “Look, Steve,” he said. “Are you committed to defend this kid no matter what?”
“I already told you that.”
“Well then you just got a major kick in the balls. The cops got a search warrant for Jeremy Dawson’s school locker. You know what they turned up? Twenty-eight vials of crack, some drug paraphernalia and a thirty-two- caliber automatic.”
“What!?” Steve said.
“That’s right. He’s heavy into drugs, and I do mean heavy. Now I don’t know if he was really playin’ with the big boys, or if the gun was just for show, but in any event he had it.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah,” Taylor said. “And you don’t know the half of it. They just got the report back from the medical examiner. He determined the cause of death.”
“So?” Steve said. “The cause of death was burning and/or asphyxiation, right?”
“The cause of death,” Mark Taylor said dryly, “was a thirty-two-caliber bullet fired directly into the back of the head.”
23
Jeremy Dawson looked like a sulky kid.
“You left a few things out, Jeremy.”
Jeremy said nothing, kept his head down.
“You didn’t tell me you dealt crack. You didn’t tell me you had a gun.”
Jeremy shifted slightly, continued to look at the floor.
“You don’t seem surprised I know all this. Did the cops talk to you?”
No response.
“I asked you a question. The cops talk to you?”
“Yeah.”
“What’d you tell ‘em?”
Jeremy raised his eyes then, defiantly. “Just what you told me. I got nothin’ to say, talk to my lawyer.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah, that’s all.”
“But they didn’t let up. They kept after you. They kept asking you questions. They show you vials of crack?”
“Yeah.”
“They show you a gun?”
“Yeah.”
“They ask you where you got them?”
No response.
“Hey, kid, wake up. This is not high-school time. I’m not a teacher askin’ you why you were late for class. This is a murder here. If they nail you for it, it’s gonna be a little worse than bein’ kept after school. So quit sulking, grow up and answer some questions. Did they ask you where you got them?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you tell them?”
“See my lawyer.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t answer any questions, you didn’t try to explain anything?”
“Hell, no.”
Steve Winslow was sure he hadn’t. Some kids’ reaction would be to try to lie their way out of it. Jeremy’s would be to pull himself into his shell and sulk.
“O.K., fine,” Steve said. “You did good. I didn’t want you to talk, and you didn’t talk. The problem is, now you got in the habit. And I need you to talk to me. So let’s shift gears here, get yourself into your talking mode, ’cause you got things to say.”
Jeremy looked at him, hostile, defiant. Steve Winslow wanted very much to walk out. He fought the urge.
“O.K. Now, where did you get the gun?”
“Shit.”
“Hey, I’m your lawyer. You can tell me anything. If I’m going to help you, you
Jeremy snuffled. “Connection.”
“What?”
“My connection. For crack.”
“Who’s that?”
