“So they say.”
“I still don’t see much of a motive on your part. A brawl at a bar?”
“Hardly a brawl. Milhouser was punching a lot of air and I just settled him down.”
“Veckstrom has subpoenaed your medical records from Southampton Hospital, on a theory of Semple’s that even the threat of a fight with Robbie Milhouser was a serious matter for you. That you have a legitimate fear of brain damage growing out of your boxing career and various related, extralegal activity,” said Burton, before managing to kiss one of his balls into a side pocket, using a gentle, almost silent tap of the cue.
“If I thought Milhouser was a threat I’d really be brain damaged.”
Burton looked thoughtful.
“Milhouser was several inches taller and sixty pounds heavier. And about ten years younger. With a reputation for reckless, drunken behavior. And he was supported by two other strong young men. That would sound like a threat to a reasonable jury.”
He chose to make his next shot a long trip across the felt that almost cut the target into a corner pocket, but sank the cue ball instead.
“Damn.”
“So they only have to prove I’m both stupid and chickenshit,” I said.
He stood up to chalk the stick, as if that was the cause of the problem.
“When was the last time you went to the boxing gym in Westhampton?” he asked.
“It’s been a while. I’ve been humping on Frank’s big job. Don’t need to.”
“Hm. And when was the last time you got into the ring to spar?” Burt asked me, even though he knew the answer.
“Christ, almost never out here. I don’t spar with people who don’t know what they’re doing. They just get hurt, or pissed, or both. Anyway, I’m fifty-four years old. Why risk some jamoke getting in a lucky shot?”
Burton looked even more thoughtful, as he pursed his lips and nodded.
“I see. So you were afraid of risking … what?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Anyway, it’s just a theory. I think I’m buying this round,” he said, staring into his empty glass of Baileys.
While he was away I sat back to work out a strategy for the eight ball. Hayden’s eyes flickered around the table as he sipped his light beer.
“What do you think?” I asked him.
“You should go for a change of venue. These locals are harboring some kind of a grudge,” he said, then tore his eyes away from the table to look at me. “Just from what I’ve been overhearing. Don’t mean to interfere.”
“No worries. All jurisprudence is welcome. About my case or the next shot on the eight ball.”
“I think you should cut into the corner pocket. The side’s closer, but too risky. Too much angle,” he said. “Add a little bottom spin. Keep you out of the other corner.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
I was tempted to try for the side pocket anyway, but when Burton got back to the table I sank the ball in the corner, as suggested.
“Well, there goes the trophy,” said Burton as he handed out the round of drinks.
“Not until Hayden’s up to bat. He insisted,” I said, dropping a pair of quarters into the slot to free up the balls. Hayden looked reluctant, but racked up the balls as I threw them out on the table, though not with the same deliberate precision as the time before.
“I’m concerned about this, Sam,” said Burton.
“Tell me more about Ross’s theories,” I said, leaning down to break up the little triangle of balls.
“A person’s prior criminal record is usually inadmissible, except all those times when it isn’t. I don’t know how much the judge will allow, but they’ll try to show a pattern of violence, consistent with a vengeful nature. General antisocial behavior, a picture of a man unhinged, out of control.”
“Fuck them.”
“Ross may or may not actually believe in the theory,” said Burton. “He may not even think you killed Robert Milhouser, but he’s fairly sure you’re guilty of killing someone. In particular that fellow Sobol, who was in on the swindle with Roy Battiston, and an unfortunate drug merchant in Bridgeport, Connecticut named Darrin something. An interesting story. I’d never heard it before.”
“Those cases were settled in court. Whatever happened to double jeopardy?” I asked.
“An accidental death can always be retried as a homicide,” said Hayden. “Apples and oranges.”
“More relevant to you,” said Burton, “the police keep their own scorecard. Following the logic of law enforcement, this is the case that’ll make everything right.”
“A kind of
“That’s our sister publication,” he said, taking over the table and dropping three ducks in a row. His fourth shot was a delicate combination that sank another of his balls and left the cue ball an inch from the next, perfectly aligned with the corner pocket.
“Nice,” I said.
His next shot went wildly wide, giving me back the table.
“Pity,” I said.
“Hayden is a symphony of unrealized potential,” said Burton.
“I can see that,” I said, slamming one of my balls in the corner and scratching an instant later.
“Seems to be a curse today,” I said, setting the cue ball back on the table.
Hayden squatted down and peered across the felt to plan his next shot from the cue ball’s perspective.
“It’s easy to be misled by the way popular culture represents the legal system,” said Burton. “Complexities and subtleties make for good entertainment, but the reality is mostly blunt force. A corpse, a suspect with no alibi and a murder weapon that connects the two. A simple formula, custom-made to stir the passions of a prosecutor like Edith Madison.”
Hayden thinned out the population of solids while Burton was talking. He had them pared down to a single ball before yielding the table.
“I felt the same way about her ADA.”
I put way too much topspin on my next shot, causing the cue ball to ricochet up off the table and fly straight at Hayden’s head. He jerked to the side and snatched it out of the air.
“Sorry, man,” I said.
“This isn’t tennis,” said Burton.
“Must be repressed nerves.”
“First sensible thing I’ve heard from you,” said Burton. “Get those nerves out in the open where they belong.”
“You sound like Jackie.”
“A very bright woman. You should listen.”
“She tried to quit my case, but I wouldn’t let her. She said she was over her head.”
“She is,” said Burton, “but I won’t let her go under. We’ll plan everything together. She’ll be fine in the courtroom.”
Hayden recovered well enough from his turn at shortstop to put away the game. He sank the eight ball in a corner pocket after banking it off the rail at the opposite end of the table.
“It’s a good thing you guys were occupied,” he said. “I’d have never made that shot with your eyes on me.”
“It’s amazing what people can do when nobody’s looking,” I told him as I invested two more quarters and started stuffing the rack.
“You’ll have to try to be cooperative, Sam,” said Burton. “I know that runs against the grain.”
“Like I told Jackie, all I can say is I didn’t do it. You got to take it from there.”
“Not even that is necessary,” said Burton. “Your break, Hayden,” he added, looking down at the freshly racked triangle of balls.
“So you’re not even going to ask me?” I said. “Jackie did.”
Burton waited until Hayden had the balls scattered around the table, sinking none.
